


Take It From Me

by castiowl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not by steve or bucky), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, Asshole Brock Rumlow, Bottom Bucky, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Cheating, Chinese Food, Christmas, College, College Student Bucky Barnes, Depression, Drunk Steve Rogers, Fist Fights, Flashbacks, Fluff, Graphic Designer Steve Rogers, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Happy Ending, Lovers to Friends, Lovers to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Minor Violence, New Year's Eve, One Night Stands, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Panic Attacks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Smut, Student Bucky Barnes, Tattoos, Teacher Steve Rogers, Therapy, Top Steve Rogers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, friend dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiowl/pseuds/castiowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous break up with Brock, Steve is looking to drown his feelings at a bar. Instead, he finds a rakish stranger and decides to take him home. It’s a no-strings-attached, one-night stand, a way to forget all the shitty things Brock made him feel. The stranger is leaving the country anyway, so Steve may as well take advantage of the opportunity for anonymous rebound sex. Steve’ll never see him again, right?</p><p>A lot can change in three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve hated this bar. It was overly crowded, blasted some new wave techno music even someone as young as Steve didn’t get, and it still allowed smoking inside. 

Brock also hated this bar, which is exactly why Steve had chosen it to drown himself in the cheapest whiskey they had. The bartender, at least, liked Steve. Steve had been there on a few occasions because it was Darcy’s favorite for whatever ungodly reason. She was a college student; maybe this atmosphere did it for them? Steve was at a loss, which was saying something because he spent two days a week surrounded by early-20-somethings at a community college teaching an intro to graphic design course. That’s how he’d met Darcy. It wasn’t exactly normal, he supposed, to hang out with students after class, but he chalked it up to his position as _adjunct_ professor; adjuncts were nothing in the grand scheme of things. Plus, Steve might be young for a teacher at 25, but Darcy was old for a student at 23.

The bartender, Logan, was a gruff guy at least ten or fifteen years older than Steve who didn’t like small talk and mostly looked angry at everyone and everything. Steve wasn’t sure why Logan had decided he’d bartend at _this bar_ of all places. Maybe it was the job market. Maybe Logan liked the terrible music. It looked like the only things Logan enjoyed were cigars. One was hanging out of his mouth right now as he wiped down the bar in front of Steve.

Steve stared at his slim fingers clenched around the glass in his fist and thought about Brock. They’d been dating for a year. It hadn’t seemed so long before, but it had certainly been long enough to absolutely destroy Steve’s sense of self-worth. He saw that now. Well, maybe he’d always seen it, it just took a metaphorical punch to the face to knock some sense into him.

God, he hadn’t even told anyone they’d broken up yet. That was gonna be miserable and not just because it sucked that it happened, but he knew each of his friends was going to be not-so-secretly delighted about it. They’d all hated Brock. Some had been better at hiding it than others. Sam had been cordial if a little aloof, Thor didn’t seem to understand why Jane got so upset when he constantly asked Brock to come to the boxing gym with him, Darcy was… Well, she was Darcy. She sent him thinly veiled threats and made fun of him to his face under the pretense of camaraderie. 

Steve downed his glass and tapped it on the bar. Logan glanced over and his scowl deepened. “Shouldn’t you slow down there, lightweight?”

“Nope,” Steve replied, trying not to sound surly and failing miserably.

Logan didn’t reply, instead giving Steve two fingers worth of whiskey. 

This was the part where Logan was supposed to ask why Steve was drinking himself under the table. It didn’t happen, though, because it was Logan and Logan didn’t give a shit. True to form, he moved down the bar to where another guy had just seated himself.

Steve pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes until the tell-tale pounding in his head lessened slightly. He was tipsy. Not drunk yet. He could see straight, but he didn’t trust his legs. His phone buzzed lightly in his front pocket and he pointedly ignored it, instead taking another sip of his drink.

Steve was a goddamn fucking idiot.

That was the thesis statement of his life. He was so fucking stupid and weak and he didn’t deserve a lick of the success he had. Not his teaching career; that was more or less a side job. He was really a freelancer with his business partner Peggy Carter.

Fuuuuuuck, Peggy. Peggy didn’t know about the break up.

Steve took a long draught of whiskey, felt it burn and make his eyes water. This time Logan filled it without being asked. Steve tipped the glass toward him in some weird sort of salute.

Now the room was spinning. Steve clutched the edge of the bar helplessly, closed his eyes until the vertigo passed. 

This was the part where Steve got desperate and called Brock on the phone to take him back.

But no, that wasn’t even an option. Sober, heartbroken Steve had a bit more forethought and had deleted Brock’s number from his phone along with any previous text messages, even any e-mails. Fuck past Steve for being so smart.

He felt like shit. Mostly it was the whiskey, which had evened out his nerves, but was doing nothing for his mood. One part of Steve – the sane part that sounded like some weird conglomeration of his friends – knew none of this was Steve’s fault. He’d ended it with Brock because Brock had fucked up, not the other way around. Steve had no reason to feel as guilty as he did. Shitty, sure. He was allowed to feel shitty. But guilty? 

Except… Steve _had_ fucked up, in a way. Steve hadn’t been enough, hadn’t been attentive or caring or he hadn’t worn the right clothes or gotten contacts like Brock had wanted and how many times had Brock asked Steve to just _try a little harder_? 

Why else would Brock have cheated on him? _Steve wasn’t enough for him._

Steve downed half his drink. The burn was more of a happy ache now, making him feel comfortably warm. The music pounded in his head and he leaned heavily against the bar. 

“Trying to forget something?”

Steve took ten seconds too long to realize the voice was directed at him. The bar itself wasn’t crowded; the crowd tended to congregate on the dance floor and at the tables set aside there. The only person at the bar, other than Steve, was looking at him dead in the eye with a curious little smirk on his face.

His handsome goddamn face.

Steve swallowed thickly. “Yeah, I guess,” Steve answered and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t sound half as drunk as he felt. 

The man, who was just two stools away, nodded in understanding and downed his own glass. Logan filled it up pretty quickly, Steve’s eyes ever watchful. 

“You?” Steve asked after a minute. He thought maybe the man hadn’t heard him over the obnoxious music, but then he nodded a few times at his drink.

“No, actually,” the man said and sipped at his drink instead. His lips were wet and unusually pink. Maybe it was the lighting, but Steve couldn’t avert his eyes. “Getting ready for something,” the man replied and again accosted Steve with a devilish smile.

Steve swallowed. The two continued to stare at one another for a long moment before the stranger sighed loudly and got up off his stool. Steve’s heart sank as he thought the guy was leaving, but then he planted himself right next to Steve instead.

“So, what’s your excuse?” the man asked, tipping his own glass toward Steve’s.

Steve looked at it and then back at the stranger. This close, he was even more handsome. Steve was pretty sure it wasn’t even because he was drunk; this guy was just ridiculously attractive. He had short, dark hair and hooded eyes that were startlingly blue even in the darkness of the bar, a day’s worth of stubble on his perfect jawline.

“Relationship problems,” Steve finally managed to say.

The man nodded. He did that a lot. 

“I mean, it’s not a problem anymore,” Steve corrected himself. “I broke up with him.” He tensed as he realized his accidental admission, but what did he care? If this stranger was a homophobic asshole, then Steve could add “got beat up in an alley” to the list of reasons why today was the worst.

“Did he deserve it?” the man asked instead.

Steve scoffed into his drink. “Yeah.”

“Then fuck him.”

Steve lifted his gaze to stare at him incredulously, but the stranger was back to staring mournfully at the contents of his drink. 

“Thanks,” Steve said weakly. 

They lapsed into a not-entirely-uncomfortable silence; neither felt obligated to speak given they didn’t even _know_ each other, but fully aware that should one start talking, the other would listen. Steve was the first to break the silence.

“So what’re you getting ready for?” he asked.

The stranger cocked an eyebrow at Steve and looked exasperated for a short moment. It made Steve doubt just how welcome his presence was, but then he remembered that this guy had moved next to Steve, not the other way around, so fuck him if he decided to get ornery about the conversation.

But then the man cracked a small smile and said, “I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Like, out of the city?” Steve asked.

Moving was a foreign concept to Steve. He’d lived in Brooklyn all his life. He’d traveled, of course, but he’d also spent years at a time walking the same boroughs just as happy as he’d been getting lost in Milan. 

“Out of the country,” the man corrected. He lifted a hand to wave down Logan who came over, wiping down a clean glass with a dishrag. He took the credit card that was offered and disappeared in the back with it. 

“Why?” Steve asked, in lieu of an actual interesting question.

“Work,” the man replied, but the way he half-smiled at the far wall made Steve dubious as to the truth of the answer. But they were strangers at a bar, so Steve didn’t push.

Logan returned with the card, sliding it across the counter and pushing a receipt slip toward the stranger. Steve not-so-subtly sneaked a look at the card. Clint Barton. Steve frowned. He didn’t _look_ like a Clint, but what did Steve know? He certainly didn’t look like a Steve.

Clint took a final swig of the whiskey before pushing the glass away. Steve was afraid he was leaving; why else would he have paid? But he never made a move to leave. Instead, he turned his body slightly toward Steve, leaning casually against the bar with a serious look about him, like he was judging Steve.

Steve bristled at the thought. “What?” he asked, harsher than he meant it to sound.

Clint frowned a little. “Just… thinking.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve raised his eyebrows at Clint, refusing to ask him the question directly. Clint seemed to find that funny and the frown was quickly replaced by an amused little smile.

“Wondering why any guy would cheat on you,” Clint said.

Steve immediately felt his face grow hot because this guy was undeniably _flirting with him_. How the hell else was he supposed to take a statement like that?

Steve shook his head as if to clear the sudden onslaught of unwelcome thoughts. It didn’t help in the least.

“Sorry,” Clint interrupted Steve’s awkward inner struggle. “Didn’t mean to…” He trailed off and looked guilty, his eyebrows pushed together.

Steve waved his hand in the air noncommittally. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just… haven’t been flirted with in a while.” Steve gave Clint a self-deprecating smile.

Clint smiled back. “So, why are you here, anyway? And I don’t mean the bar. Just this specific bar. Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

Steve snorted. “More my scene than yours.” It was an accurate statement. Steve could pass (and often did) as a college student because of his thick-rimmed glasses and penchant for skinny jeans, but Clint was clearly older and his taste in clothes muted, at least judging by the dark jeans and black shirt under a beat-up black leather jacket he was sporting. 

Clint laughed, a light happy thing that was remarkably attractive. “That’s fair,” he agreed. 

The two fell into a happy back-and-forth, mostly about bad music and their personal tastes. They roved over movies and books and TV shows, what they watched and listened to as kids compared to now. (Clint was only a year older than him, Steve learned.)

It was nearly an hour later, time stretching closer to midnight, when a thought crossed Steve’s mind. It was an idle one, something that would’ve flown right past sober Steve’s head, but this Steve, who hadn’t drunk anything in an hour but still felt uninhibited, latched onto the thought for dear life until it came tumbling out of his mouth.

“You wanna get out of here?”

He’d never said that before, hadn’t even _dreamed_ of saying something so forward to someone he’d just met. But there it was and it was too late to look as scandalized as he felt by his own admission, so he just looked serious instead, never dropping Clint’s stare.

Clint, for his part, didn’t look nearly as surprised by the question as Steve was, and after a few seconds of deliberation, he nodded and said, “Yeah.”

Steve felt a an unfamiliar jolt in his abdomen, not altogether unpleasant, as he slid a few bills under his empty glass for Logan; it included a good tip because Steve was feeling generous.

Clint was already standing and they walked out of the bar together. They were barely four feet away from the entrance before Steve rounded on Clint and crushed his mouth against his, pushing him against the brick wall of the bar. Clint was surprised at first, maybe hesitant, then he kissed back with equal fervor, parting his (perfect, soft, warm, slightly chapped) lips for Steve to lick into his mouth. It elicited some sinful noise on Clint’s part, a choked groan that went straight to Steve’s dick and all Steve could think was _Brock never made any noise_. It was one of the reasons it took so long for Steve to get it up with him, because he never knew if what he was doing was okay and he spent more time worried about what _Brock_ was thinking than his own damn self.

With Clint, it was easy. The guy was a cacophony of breathy noises and muted hums of pleasure. Steve decided he liked kissing this guy and could continue doing it forever if no one came to stop them.

But it was Clint himself who interceded, pushing lightly on Steve’s shoulders. “Wait, wait,” he said breathlessly, and when Steve pulled back far enough to look at him, he could’ve cried. Even under the orange fluorescents, this guy was a _dream_ , all perfectly messy hair and pouty, red lips, his cheeks pink with passion and his nose burgeoning on red from the cold of the March weather. 

Steve huffed out an annoyed breath. The irritation that bubbled up in him was at first surprising. Somehow he’d convinced himself to do a complete personality 180 and have a one-night stand and now he was getting frustrated that it wasn’t happening fast enough? 

This was the part where Clint realized this guy – this total stranger with negative self-esteem and a pushy mouth – was actually serious about this and he’d let his niceness go too far so now he was about to let Steve down easy.

“You… You’re drunk,” Clint said, his hands remained on Steve’s shoulders, heavy and warm.

Steve frowned deeply. “Seriously?”

Clint seemed to chew on that for a moment before nodding. “I don’t wanna…”

“What? Take advantage?” Steve asked.

Again, Clint nodded.

Steve huffed out a breath and stepped back. “Here, watch.” He spread his arms out to either side and touched his nose a few times. “See?” He then looked down and walked a straight line, one foot in front of the other. “Yeah?” he said, looking back at Clint who was realizing now he was being mocked. “I can even recite the alphabet backwards, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s-“

“Z, Y, X, W-“

“Really, I get it.”

“V, U, T-“

“Okay! Okay,” Clint said, half laughing and shaking his head. 

Steve stopped and smiled. “What about you?” Steve asked.

“Me? I had… two glasses of whiskey. Hardly enough to… I mean, I’m a little fuzzy, but…” Steve inched closer until he was pressed flush against Clint’s body. Clint swallowed hard and let out a long breath as he stared down at Steve. He closed the distance this time, pressing his lips against Steve’s. He snaked his arm around Steve’s lower back and pulled him closer so Steve could feel Clint’s erection right through his jeans. 

“Mm, Clint,” Steve groaned.

Clint immediately pulled back, eyes wide. “What?” he said, voice about two octaves too high.

Steve blinked a few times. "Wha-? I-"

Clint let out a little, unbelieving laugh. “What’d you call me?” he asked.

“Clint. Oh, I saw it on your card when you paid. Sorry, that must be creepy, but I was curious and-“ 

Clint’s face went from amused to ecstatic the more Steve blabbered on until Steve just stopped. 

“It’s not your name, is it?” Steve asked.

Clint – not-Clint – shook his head, a huge grin on his face. “I’m leaving the country, remember? I canceled all my credit cards, but my buddy let me borrow his for the night.” Not-Clint licked his lips. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t even have a guess at your name.”

Steve smiled a little. Then the embarrassment he felt a moment earlier slowly melted into an idea. “Maybe… that’s best. No strings attached, right? The less we know about each other…”

“The better,” not-Clint agreed cautiously. Then he nodded and said, “All right, sounds fair.”

“I’m just gonna keep calling you Clint then,” Steve said. “Unless that’s weird?”

“It’s weird,” not-Clint assured him. 

“Fine, but I need a name.”

“No, we need a cab. I’m fucking cold.”

Steve couldn't help but agree. It wasn’t until the cab pulled up and they slid into the back that they had no idea where they were going.

“I’m staying with Clint until tomorrow,” not-Clint admitted sheepishly, coloring his cheeks a little at the realization.

“That’s all right. My place is fine.” Steve gave the address to the cabbie and they were off.

“I need a name,” Steve reminded him.

Not-Clint thought a moment. “You first.”

“What? Why?” Steve asked, sounding upset but betraying his feelings with a smile.

Not-Clint smiled back. “Because you were creepy. Tryna get my name off a credit card like some sorta spy or something.”

“Not a very good one,” Steve pointed out. “But all right. Grant.” Not an original name, but he’d at least answer to it. And it was better than trying to think of a random one and then remembering it was one of his students’ names later.

“Grant,” not-Clint repeated. “Okay.” He held out his hand. “James.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, almost wondering if the guy had given him his real name, the way it sounded so natural when he said it. But he shook James’ hand anyway.

They arrived on Steve’s block not five minutes later and Steve let them into his townhouse. It had three floors, the first was the living room and kitchen, his bedroom was on the top floor, and the basement held his office. 

Steve hung his keys up and slipped off his jacket, hyperaware of the other man in his house. The man in his house who he was going to have sex with. The _stranger_ in his _living space_ he wanted to _fuck the daylights out of_ a mere eight hours after he and Brock had broken up.

No, he corrected himself. _He_ broke up with _Brock_. Steve deserved this, deserved to have a little fun for putting up with the raging dickhole that was Brock Rumlow for a whole fucking year. 

A pair of soft, warm hands on his sides sated his anger and he turned toward James. James leaned down and kissed him, softer this time, but no less passionate. He coaxed Steve’s mouth open and slid his tongue in and pressed it against Steve’s, eliciting a soft moan from him.

“Upstairs,” Steve breathed and pressed his hands against the flat, hard surface of James’ stomach to get him moving. They somehow made it into the bedroom, only stopping a few times on the stairs to touch and kiss and breathe in each other’s scent.

Steve was sober enough that he was beginning to question his every movement, wondering how on earth he’d convinced this guy to come this far when he was everything Steve wasn’t: painstakingly attractive, put together, not pining after a total fucking asshole. 

“This okay?” James asked quietly, running one hand along Steve’s jaw while the other hugged his waist.

Steve nodded.

They were still standing in the doorway to his bedroom, so Steve stepped back closer to the bed, taking James with him. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, he sat and James leaned over him, kissing him deeply, pulling at his lips before sinking to his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, pulling back the fabric of Steve’s long-sleeved shirt to lick a stripe there before moving up to kiss his mouth again.

Then James kissed the other side of Steve’s neck, stopping to nip at the taut tendon. Steve moaned softly at the sudden pain. He pushed his hands through the back of James’ hair and tugged lightly, which forced a groan out of James, the sound vibrating against Steve’s neck. 

“You wanna top or bottom?”

The question shocked Steve and he opened his eyes. “What?”

James pulled back, mostly expressionless. “Top or bottom?”

“I- I…” Steve swallowed and James smiled a little.

“It’s not a million-dollar question, Grant.”

Steve left his mouth hanging open. Brock had _never_ asked him that. In fact, Steve hadn’t topped in a whole year because of Brock and his unmoving preferences. And Steve _liked_ being in control. He just hadn’t had much of a choice… 

“Look, I’ll decide if you don’t want to,” James said, only half-joking.

Steve looked back at him and grinned before crushing their mouths together again. He pulled at James’ shirt, edging him farther onto the bed so he could push him over onto his back. James bounced a little, surprised, before smiling wide at Steve.

“Thank god. I’m a shit top,” James murmured as Steve pushed his hands under James’ shirt, digging his nails in slightly. James preened into the touch, arching his back, gasping when Steve’s thumb ghosted over his nipple. Steve pushed the shirt all the way up, then over James’ head. He leaned back a foot to take him in because the guy was _fit_.

“Jesus, what are you, an ultimate fighter?” Steve wondered aloud.

James laughed loudly. Steve cut it short with a kiss, wanting to feel the laughter on his mouth, in his lungs. James’ hands tugged at Steve’s shirt until it came over his head. Steve was starkly unimpressive next to James’ physique. He was lean, almost too thin, although he’d put on considerable muscle mass in the past two years, so he was solid at least. He was also covered in tattoos. From his clavicles to his pelvic bone was a hodgepodge of art and script. He saw James’ eyes trying to take it all in at once. There were even more pieces on either arm, before hidden by his shirt.

“Shit,” James muttered and he pressed his palm against the middle of Steve’s chest. “That is… so incredibly hot.”

Steve blushed, grateful for the lack of proper lighting in the room; blushing right before sex felt superfluous.

James put his hands on either side of Steve’s face and tugged lightly until Steve’s mouth was close enough to capture. They kissed for a while, until James started unconsciously canting his hips up against Steve’s. 

“Pants,” Steve said.

“Pants,” agreed James and Steve reached for James' belt buckle, undoing it and the zipper quickly. James lifted his hips in the air so Steve could pull them off. Steve stared for a moment.

“You have good taste in underwear,” Steve commented.

James gave Steve a confused look, to which Steve quickly stood up, loosened his own belt, and dropped his pants, revealing the same brand of plain, black boxer briefs. 

James let out a sharp laugh, leaning up on his elbows. “It was meant to be,” he quipped.

Steve crawled back onto the bed over James and pressed his mouth against his Adam’s apple. He tasted the sweat on his neck and kissed down farther onto his chest. He licked James’ left nipple and this time when James’ hips bucked up, Steve felt his hard cock against his own through the thin fabric of their underwear. As Steve worried away, kissing and sucking at James’ chest, James’ hand found its way to the hemline of Steve’s underwear. He teased at first, rubbing the skin just above his dick until Steve was canting his hips forward, toward his touch. Then, James wrapped his hand around his cock and Steve let out an undignified groan.

James’ movements were surprisingly slow and soft, given how turned on they both were. Steve panted against James’ chest, unable to do anything else but close his eyes and _feel_. When James removed his hand, Steve actually whined, but it was probably for the best. He’d be especially embarrassed if he came; he had the longest refractory period known to man. 

Now he could focus elsewhere. He pulled his own underwear off, letting it fall behind him on the floor, before tugging lightly at James’ until he lifted his hips again. Steve pulled them off and _fuck, he was pretty_. 

James’ cock looked like it was purposely trying to be at odds with what Steve was so used to with Brock. Where Brock was long and thin, James was smaller but thicker and uncut. And dripping with pre-come. Steve licked the wetness off the head of his cock and James let out a loud moan, fisting his hands in the blankets. 

Steve slowly took James all the way into his mouth, testing the feel of it. He found he could get the whole length of it in with no issue, much to James’ delight as he shouted, “Holy fuck!” as Steve leveled out. 

Brock had liked to fuck into Steve’s mouth and Steve hated it. He could say that now –he hated it. He fucking hated choking on his dick. It made him feel worthless, but this was…

_He should really stop thinking about Brock._

No, this was nice because Steve knew he was in control. When he pulled his mouth back, but not off, he flicked his eyes up to meet James’ and was almost overcome by the look of pure pleasure on his face. He looked totally, utterly in love. In love with the image of Steve sucking him off – Steve wasn’t getting any romantic ideas, here.

Still, it was _nice_ to be looked at like that instead of-

_No more thinking about fucking Brock._

Steve focused on the feel of James in his mouth, heavy on his tongue with the taste of salt, sweat, and sex. 

Five minutes of teasing, twisting, licking, sucking, James growing louder and his whines higher-pitched every passing moment. Steve finally broke off for good and James let out a pathetic groan at the loss of contact, Steve smirking his way back up to James’ mouth to lick inside and force James to taste himself. 

“Fuuuuuck,” James breathed. “Has anyone… told you… how good you are… at that?” James gasped out between wet kisses.

Steve snorted a laugh and pulled back to look at James. “No,” he said. Because it was the truth and because he wanted James to tell him.

James made a noise, eyebrows pinching together. “Not possible,” he said as Steve moved to his neck to worry a kiss there. “That was… amazing.”

“You didn’t even come.”

“No, but I believe in vocal affirmation during sex.”

Again, Steve pulled back, an amused smile on his face. “You’re weird.”

James grinned wide. “No, just considerate.”

Steve studied James’ face for a long moment, the way his previously perfect hair was now sweat-stuck to his forehead, the way his eyes were heavy-lidded, his pupils huge and dark and ever-watchful of Steve. This guy couldn’t be real and yet here he was. Here they _both_ were.

Steve maneuvered himself over James to the nightstand by the bed. It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the yellow glow seeping in through the curtains from the streetlamp, so Steve had to fumble around a bit before finally grabbing hold of the bottle of lube and a condom. He pressed the condom into the bedspread next to James’ hip and thumbed open the lube.

James looked hungrily on as Steve soaked his fingers in the warm liquid. James shifted his hips a little and folded one knee up and to the side, giving Steve permission. Steve dropped the bottle to the side, pressed his left hand on James’ right thigh, pushing the leg back a little farther, and pressed the tip of his finger against James’ opening. The noise that came out of James’ mouth was loud and hungry. Steve teased and played, eliciting a few choice words from James before finally pushing in. It was tight and hot, but it only took a minute of gentle coaxing to get Steve’s whole finger inside. He tested his second finger then, pushing in slowly, watching James’ face for any signs of discomfort because he knew how much this could hurt without proper care.

“Jesus fuck,” James breathed once Steve started fucking his fingers in and out of him.

“’s okay?” Steve asked, just as breathless from the very sight of James spread out before him.

James’ eyes were pinched closed, but he nodded vigorously, so Steve didn’t relent. He scissored his fingers, pushed harder, faster, until he finally pushed the third finger in. In a few short minutes, James was _begging_ Steve to fuck him. Just once, Steve curled his fingers up as he pulled out, grazing James’ prostate and forcing him to cry out loudly.

Steve decided he liked that noise the best.

Steve stroked himself lazily as his other hand blindly searched the bed for the condom. Once he did, he tore it open and fitted it on before going in search of the bottle of lube. He poured the lube on himself generously and lined himself up.

“Fucking finally,” James said and Steve laughed.

James smiled and gave Steve a dopey look, canting his hips up slightly, toward the soft pressure of Steve’s dick on his ass. “I’m crawlin’ outta my skin here. Fuck me. Please, please, please…” His voice broke off into a hum of pleasure as Steve rubbed the palm of his hand up James’ length.

Steve pushed in. It was so tight, Steve thought maybe he hadn’t done enough preparation, but then James let out a groan of pleasure, fisting the sheets on either side of him tightly. Steve leaned forward, pressing his too-hot chest against James’ and pushed in as far as he could go.

James watched him, mouth slightly open, and Steve pressed his mouth against James’. He reacted lazily, only chasing after Steve’s lips when he pulled away. Steve pulled out a little and pressed in again. James closed his eyes and let out a breath, swallowing down a choked sound.

Maybe Steve was still tipsy, maybe he was just out of his mind, but he ran his right hand through James’ damp hair and told him, “God, you’re beautiful.”

James closed his eyes and his perfect lips tilted up into a pleased smile. “Right back- oh fuck- atcha,” he breathed. Steve picked up a rhythm. At first, he relished the slow pull of James around him, wanted to go as slow as he could, to feel every inch of him, but then it wasn’t enough. And James was growing impatient, trying to meet Steve’s thrusts halfway, to speed him up. Who was Steve to deny him that? Steve picked up, leaned against his forearms over James’ chest, his mouth ghosting hitched breaths against James’ jaw and chin. 

James was mouthy, full of _oh fucks_ and _yes, fuck yeses_ until the room was just a cacophony of expletives, panting, and the sound of Steve slapping into James.

At some point the cursing stopped. Steve slowed and pushed himself up, thinking James had come already, but he hadn’t. He was just staring at Steve, eyes clear and wide, a perfect little smile tugging at the right side of his mouth.

“What?” Steve breathed, stilling.

James closed his eyes for a long moment and when he opened them, he lunged forward to capture Steve’s mouth with his own. Steve let out a low groan, completely swallowed by James. James’ leg came up to nudge Steve’s side and Steve realized he was being asked to roll over. He did so, pulling out in the process, and sat up. James threw his leg over to straddle Steve, his hands touching Steve all over, gracing his shoulders and neck and back and chest. It wasn’t a possessive touch; it felt reverent. And the way James watched him, studied the way his hands touched Steve’s pale skin, felt reverent, too. 

Finally, James situated himself over Steve and sat down. Steve found he missed the feel of him, even in so short a time, and he let out a stuttered groan. James’ right hand ran through the back of Steve’s hair, tugging lightly, while his left hand ran up and down his back, tracing the indents of his spine.

Then, James started moving, fucking himself on Steve slowly. His breath against Steve’s temple was hot, but beautifully quiet. Steve closed his eyes to the sensations and soon was matching James with fervent thrusts. Steve could feel himself edging toward the end, the pool of lust in his abdomen tightening harder every time James filled himself up. He was afraid James wasn’t close, that he would come and be spent before James was even halfway there, but then James whimpered in Steve’s ear, his lips ghosting against his skin. Steve felt James’ release against his own stomach and it was enough to send Steve over the edge, too, pushing his hips up to fill James as much as he could. He came hard, harder than he remembered ever coming in the past, dug his fingers into the hard, taut muscle of James’ back. The high took longer than usual to come down from and the sound of his harsh breathing didn’t go unnoticed by James.

“Okay?” James asked, his mouth still pressed against Steve’s ear.

Steve nodded slowly. James moved, lifting himself up and off of Steve. Steve caught his breath for a moment before reaching over to the nightstand and pulling out a package of wet wipes from the drawer. He pulled one out before tossing the rest at James who caught them easily.

“You really think of everything,” James quipped.

Steve looked up at him, wiping at the mess on his stomach. He smiled lightly. “More like wishful thinking.” He pulled off the condom, tied the end, and tossed it into the trashcan sitting against the far wall.

James gave him a curious look, taking out a wipe and cleaning himself up. “You don’t have to answer this, but I thought you said your ex…” He trailed off, then restarted his thought. “You and he didn’t… have sex a lot?”

Steve laughed and it came out angrier than he thought it would. “We had plenty of sex,” he said. “Just never at my place.”

“Ah,” James said in understanding, although the way his eyebrows pinched together in confusion proved he didn’t know the half of it.

Truth was, once upon a time, Steve dreamed of having Brock in his bed. Had bought the condoms and lube and wet wipes eight months ago; they’d never been used until tonight. Because Brock hated Steve’s place. Or maybe he just hated Steve. That was becoming more and more obvious as the minutes ticked on.

“Hey.” James’ voice cut into Steve’s painful thoughts and Steve realized he was glaring at his hands on his naked lap. James crawled over to him, pushed a hand through Steve’s hair, and pressed a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“Sorry,” James continued. “I didn’t mean to…”

Steve shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” James said, all matter-of-fact. “But that’s why I’m here. To help you forget?”

Steve frowned slightly. Is that why he’d just had sex with a complete stranger? To forget Brock? So far, it’d done just the opposite, highlighting all the things that were wrong with that relationship. Still, it was nice.

Steve shook his head again. “You’re here ‘cause I want you here,” he decided and James smiled wide, showing his almost-perfect teeth before kissing Steve deeply.

“Well, I’m glad you want me here,” James said, his breath hot against Steve’s mouth. “And I’m glad I’m here.” He pressed a kiss against Steve’s cheek. “And I’ll be sad to go.” Another kiss on Steve’s nose that made him laugh. “And I can’t believe we met,” he kissed Steve’s cheekbone, just below his eye, “the night before I leave,” he kissed the other side, “the fucking country.”

Steve was smiling now, wide and uninhibited. He knew the drink had left him ages ago, but he suddenly felt drunk again, and maybe that’s why he said, “Stay.” He backpedaled, realizing what that sounded like. “Just the night, I mean. I know it’s not… customary for this sort of thing.”

James studied him, eyes roving over his face, each flicker noticeable this close. Finally, he smiled a little. “Okay,” James said. “But I have to leave early-“

“That’s fine!” Steve interjected. “Really, I just…” He hesitated. But then, this guy was leaving tomorrow, so what’d he have to lose? “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Something changed in James’ expression, a slight softening around his eyes that looked like sadness or maybe understanding. He moved, then, tossing the package of wet wipes on the floor. “Lay down,” he half-ordered, half-asked.

Steve obeyed, pushing back the comforter and sheets to crawl under. James was quick to join him. He pushed on Steve’s shoulder until he was on his side, his back against James. James sidled close to Steve, his warmth almost too much and yet somehow not enough as they pressed close together. James slung his arm over Steve, anchoring himself against his chest, one hand pressed against Steve’s sternum. James pressed a soft kiss against the nape of Steve’s neck. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Steve let out a breath. “Perfect,” he mumbled, already drowsy and achingly exhausted.

The last thought Steve had before drifting off was about Peggy, if he would tell her about his night with James. He decided he would, because if anyone was going to be happy about Steve’s attempts to move on from Brock, it’d be her, even if she disagreed with the how.

  


* * *

  


Steve woke to an empty bed at eight in the morning, grateful that it was a Saturday and he had time to calibrate before diving back into work. He knew James was gone, although he hadn’t heard him leave. He finally forced himself to turn over and stare at the empty spot next to him.

Except the spot wasn’t empty. A neatly folded piece of computer paper sat on top of the comforter, the name “Grant” written in messy, all-capital letters across the front.

Steve snatched it off the bed and opened it. 

_Grant,_

_If we ever meet again, I’m taking you on a proper date. Candles and shit. Because I think you deserve it. That’s stupid. That sounds stupid. This note is stupid. Sorry. This is the part where you realize you slept with the lamest guy on Earth._

_But I’m being honest when I say you deserve something good in your life. For longer than one night. Being alone because you don’t think you’re worth much is the worst thing you can do to yourself._

_Take it from me._

_James_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter may as well be PWP tbh. The rest of the fic won't be like that (probably).
> 
> Hello there! I told you I was working on an AU that wasn't based on a film. Not sure how long this one is going to be. I don't have much of an ending in mind; just a middle. Hopefully you like it and please comment to let me know what you FEEL.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. I can be found on tumblr, [here](http://castiowl.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that mild self-harm due to severe anxiety is mentioned in passing in this chapter.

**Three Years Later**

Bucky cataloged his symptoms. Sweaty palms: normal, accelerated heartbeat: normal, trouble breathing: normal, catastrophic thinking: normal, sour taste in mouth: normal, inability to understand English: abnormal. It could be normal, Bucky decided pragmatically as the chatty blonde woman continued to wax poetic about her three cats in some garbled language. It could be a new symptom.

He almost laughed at that. A new symptom is exactly what he needed on top of all the other shit.

His vision started to tunnel and he tried to remember what Sam had taught him. Something about focus and movement and touch? God, he should really start taking notes or something. 

Okay, start with a name. What was this woman’s name? S-something. Sally? She didn’t look like a Sally. Not-Sally’s expression changed as she must have only just realized her companion wasn’t exactly all there.

“Are you all right?” she asked. In English. Well, that was something.

Bucky forced himself to nod, to smile a little, although he was sure it came out like a grimace instead. “Need some air,” he managed to get out before high-tailing it toward the front door. More specifically, he needed the air of his apartment where it was quiet and not filled with fifty-plus people. How had Sam convinced him to come to this thing again? He hesitated to call it a party because parties were fun and this was a goddamn nightmare.

“Whoa, where you headed to, posterboy?”

Oh fuck.

“Tony,” Bucky greeted, unable and unwilling to keep the weariness out of his voice.

Tony slung an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed. Because the room hadn’t felt small enough before. “No retreat until the battle’s over, brother,” Tony said and turned him away from the front door back to the heart of the party. Any other time, Bucky would’ve bristled at the words, but tonight it’s all he can do to keep standing. 

Tony shoved a red solo cup in Bucky’s hand and pushed him into the fray. “Make friends! Be merry! And I’m watching the fucking door, so no escaping!”

Bucky froze as a large guy – way too big to be anything other than an Olympic heavyweight wrestler – backed into him. Bucky’s beer splattered on the hardwood floor. He’d feel bad if this weren’t Tony’s apartment, but it was so he didn’t give a shit. The Olympian, however, did. He turned, looking distraught, and placed a huge, heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “My apologies!” he said too loudly. Maybe drunk? Except his vision was clear and unwavering as it grazed over Bucky’s face, his clothes, the spilled beer.

“I will get something to clean this up immediately,” the man continued, a strange look of determination on his face. He hastened away. Bucky let out a shaky breath and willed himself toward the far wall where he hoped and prayed the window would open onto a fire escape.

The apartment wasn’t big, certainly not by Tony Stark standards. Tony only owned the place to throw what he called “get togethers” while giving esteemed guests and the select few photographers the impression that sure, he was well off, but look! He owned a rustic flat just like a bohemian artist would! He’s down-to-earth! You should give him monetary support because he’s _just like your deadbeat son who majored in fine art except he’s actually successful_! The place even had some weird art on the walls, just to really seal the deal.

Bucky fucking hated Tony. 

He made it to the window and it amazingly led out onto a fire escape. It was a tight fit and it took all of Bucky’s inability to care about what he looked like to squeeze out onto the metal landing. He nearly fell on his face, but caught himself on the railing with a “Fuck!”

He apparently wasn’t the only one who thought the flat was overcrowded. A man stood to the side, leaning over the railing and looking down at the city below.

“Oh, sorry,” Bucky said. “I didn’t think anyone was out here. I’ll just…” He turned back to the window and imagined himself trying to crawl back _into_ the party. Not happening. He could just leave down the fire escape…

“It’s fine,” the man said and Bucky turned back to him.

_Holy fuck._

“Holy fuck,” Bucky said, mouth agape.

The other guy was staring right at Bucky, arms folded across his chest, and sure it was dark out and the two streetlamps on either side of the building barely shed any light, but Bucky knew this guy.

_It was Grant._

Grant took a bit longer, his gaze falling over Bucky’s whole body before recognition colored his expression.

“James?” Grant said.

Bucky felt his heart skip a beat. He remembered. He remembered and he recognized Bucky even though he looked completely different. 

Bucky felt himself nod. “Yeah. Shit,” Bucky said eloquently.

Grant laughed a little, a small smile pulling at his familiar mouth. He didn’t look any different. His hair was a little longer, but that was nothing compared to Bucky’s hair which was currently going for a personal record length, falling to his shoulders. He suddenly felt self-conscious about it, wanted to pull it back. But Sam had forced him to leave his hairties behind because the bastard knew Bucky used them as a physical comfort by snapping them against his wrist. It usually wasn’t an issue, but in high-stakes situations like parties, Bucky could do it enough to bruise or even bleed without realizing.

Fuck, Grant was talking.

“-out here?” Grant finished, head cocked slightly.

“Uh, I… What?”

“What’re you doing out here?” he repeated.

Bucky swallowed. “Ah. Noise, people. Not really my scene.”

“Not my first impression of you,” Grant replied.

“A lot can change in three years.” Bucky hadn’t meant it to sound so foreboding, but Grant’s easy nature visibly changed. His shoulders tensed and his smile disappeared.

“What’s your excuse?” Bucky asked. 

Grant shrugged one shoulder. It pulled at the cotton of his black t-shirt and Bucky wondered idly if he had any new tattoos. 

“Same, I guess,” Grant said. “Haven’t been out in awhile.”

Bucky snorted a laugh. “Me neither.”

Grant turned away to lean against the railing and Bucky went over to join him. It was a cold April night, the absence of the sun dropping the temps into the 50s every night. Grant hugged his dark coat closer to himself and pushed his glasses back into his hair, messing it up and making it stand every which way. He looked exhausted, and that meant something coming from Bucky.

Grant rubbed his eyes tiredly and then turned his head to look at Bucky. “James,” he said in disbelief.

“Grant,” Bucky said with a grin, staring right back.

Grant laughed; it was a lovely sound and Bucky couldn’t help but smile along.

“I forgot about the- My name’s not Grant. I mean, it is and it isn’t.”

Bucky laughed then, too. “Would you believe that James is my name and it isn’t?”

Grant gave Bucky a strange look. “Oh yeah? Grant’s my middle name.”

“James is my first name. Everyone calls me Bucky. Unless you’re my mom or my CO.”

“Bucky,” he repeated slowly. He stuck out his hand and Bucky took it. “I’m Steve.”

Bucky smiled wide. “Nice to meet you, Steve. Again.” Steve’s hand was cold and he quickly snaked it back into his coat pocket when they let go.

“So,” Steve said. “CO?”

Bucky let out a breath. “Yeah. Army.”

“When you said you were leaving the country for work, then…”

“Deployed,” Bucky answered. 

“Well, shit. You should’ve said.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “Would that have changed something?”

Steve chewed on that, then shook his head. “I guess not. Still, you must’ve been scared.”

Bucky shrugged. “I grew up in a military family. Just part of life, y’know?” Lie. Bucky’d been so scared, he’d gone to a bar in lieu of laying awake all night having panic attacks on Clint’s couch. 

Steve, to his credit, looked unconvinced, but he didn’t push it. 

“What about you? Any shitty boyfriends since?” Bucky asked.

Some expression flickered across Steve’s face – guilt or fear – before it was gone, replaced by a steely look.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, lifting a hand. “You don’t have to… answer that.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Steve said and his shoulders sagged a little. He leaned back and grabbed the railing in front of him with both hands. 

That’s when Bucky saw the golden band hugging Steve’s left ring finger. Oh.

_Oh._

Shit, Bucky really stepped in it. Steve had married his dickwad ex-boyfriend and Bucky had just reminded Steve why that maybe wasn’t a good idea, reminded him of what Steve no doubt thinks of as a mistake, that night they spent together. Shit. Fuck. Shitting fuck.

Steve looked down at the ring for a moment, then out at the streets before them. “Got married.”

“Yeah, right,” Bucky said weakly. “Lucky guy.”

“Gal, actually. And I was the lucky one.”

“Oh.” Bucky didn’t know what to do with that information. 

“She…” Steve hesitated, seemed to teeter on the edge of telling Bucky something. “She passed away a few months ago.”

“Shit,” Bucky breathed. “Sorry. That’s… awful.”

Steve nodded to himself and swallowed. “Thanks. Anyway, that’s why I haven’t…” Steve waved his hand vaguely toward the window. 

“Right,” Bucky said. This conversation had taken a turn, but Bucky was surprised to note his usual anxiety symptoms hadn’t resurfaced since climbing out the window. 

Bucky angled the left side of his body toward Steve and took out his left hand. “Well, I lost an arm,” he said. He stared down at the glinting metal of the prosthetic. “I think you win,” he noted absently.

Steve barked a laugh, his hard expression turning soft again. Bucky smiled at him. Steve reached out and Bucky flinched back before he realized what he was doing.

“Sorry,” Steve said immediately.

“No. No, God, no, sorry. I’m sorry,” Bucky said and held out his prosthetic arm again. “I don’t usually like people… touching. But after that pity party, I think you could ask me to jump off this building and I would to make you feel better.”

Steve laughed softly. “It’s fine. I don’t have to-“

“No, no, really. I was kidding. It’s fine.” Bucky pushed back his left sleeve to show off the arm. Steve shot Bucky one more look before pushing his glasses back on his nose, reaching out, and running the tips of his fingers across the cool metal. Bucky couldn’t feel it. This was a prototype. Apparently the real thing would be hardwired into his nerves and he’d be able to feel something. 

Bucky had wondered before what profession Steve had. This close, Bucky could see the ink stains on his fingertips, the way he gracefully thumbed the indents along Bucky’s forearm. This guy was an artist.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve commented, dropping his hands.

“Don’t let Tony hear you say that,” Bucky quipped.

“Tony?” Steve asked curiously. “He made that?”

Bucky nodded. “That’s why I’m here at all. I’m the posterboy for his new endeavor. Biomechanical prosthetics for war vets.” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“And I’m guessing you’re not interested in being said posterboy?” Steve asked.

“You’d guess right,” Bucky replied. “But that ‘annoying IED fortunately missed blasting up my handsome face’,” Bucky quoted snidely. “Tony’s words, not mine. So here I am.”

“Shit.”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t mind so much. I mean, I do mind. But it’s for a good cause. I think.”

“Always hard to tell with Tony,” Steve agreed.

“Yeah, no kidding. Why’re you here?”

Steve snorted derisively. “That art on the walls?”

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a bitter smile. “I’m his personal decorator.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s… sort of a friend. I owed him one.”

“Tell me that’s not your day job.”

“That’s not my day job,” Steve assured him with a grin.

“Hey! There you are!” Bucky and Steve turned toward the window where Sam was sticking his head out.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky asked accusatorially. “You said you couldn’t make it.”

Sam glanced from Steve back to Bucky before answering: “I lied. Wanted to see if you could do this on your own.”

“Dick.”

“Hey Steve,” Sam greeted.

“Sam,” Steve replied.

Bucky frowned. His world had just shrunk considerably if Steve knew Sam. 

Sam turned back to Bucky. “Tony needs you.”

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed.

“Posterboy duties?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. When he didn’t make a move to join Sam inside the building, Sam took the hint and left.

“Stick around?” Bucky asked Steve as he reluctantly eyed the window.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I’ll find you.”

Bucky smiled and maneuvered himself back into the apartment. The noise had died down a little, which was doing nothing for Bucky’s nerves. He didn’t have to wander too far before Tony found him, once again throwing an arm around his shoulder and half-leading, half-dragging him to the far end of the room.

It was no less than amazing how Tony controlled a room. All he had to do was clear his throat and everyone quieted, all eyes on him. On _them_. This would not be a great time to pass out, Bucky thought idly. His eyes searched the crowd of politician-wannabes and news conglomerate dignitaries for a friendly face. He finally caught sight of Sam near the back who smiled and gave Bucky a thumbs-up. Bucky withered a little.

He didn’t hear most of what Tony said, but he did his part. He smiled at the funny parts and looked noble at others; Tony had made Bucky go over this speech a dozen times. Even if he didn’t hear a word of it, he knew Tony had sold it. Everyone clapped. That annoying, half-assed clapping rich white folks did at golf games. 

Bucky was crawling out of his skin by the time Tony clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Tony told him he was free to dash, but not before reminding him that the prosthetic he was wearing needed to be returned. 

One thing that could be said about Tony is that he didn’t bother standing on ceremony. Bucky rolled his eyes and disappeared into the crowd. A few young politicals came to talk to Bucky, perhaps hoping they’d be photographed with the _suffering yet brave war hero_. Bucky was quick to blow them off, leaving them gape-mouthed and haughty.

Sam found him next, thankfully keeping his distance; if Bucky got clapped on the shoulder one more time, he might wrench the damn arm off and throw it at someone. “Great job, man,” Sam said seriously.

“Yeah, thanks. Remind me to not pay you our next session.”

Sam laughed at that. “C’mon man, seriously. That was a huge deal. A big milestone.”

“Look, Sam, I know you’re really into this talking about your feelings shit-“

“It’s my job, yeah.”

“-but I really just want to go home and crash.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “All right,” he conceded. “Text me if you need anything between now and Wednesday.”

Bucky waved his hand noncommittally before making his way toward the door.

“I hope you’re not trying to sneak away without saying goodbye.”

Bucky turned and spotted Steve lounging by the front door. He looked less tired in the light of the apartment, or maybe it was because he was smiling. Bucky smiled back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good, because I think you owe me a date?”

Bucky bit out a laugh. This guy had a stellar memory. “Yeah, I guess I remember writing something like that.”

Steve’s smile faltered for a moment. “Look, I’m not actually looking to… y’know. I’m not exactly… fit for dating.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“You’re talking to the king of unfit for dating,” Bucky replied. “How’s lunch tomorrow? As friends.”

Steve brightened. “That sounds great!” 

They exchanged numbers and said their goodbyes, Steve mentioning that he had to stick around ‘til the end to collect his art while no one was there to see it was all a well-decorated sham. Bucky only half-considered keeping him company, but his nerves were so fried it’d be a miracle if he didn’t crash on the cab ride home. Instead, he made his way out of the apartment and onto the streets of New York. For the first time in the six months since he’d been back, he felt the crushing weight of all that guilt and shame lift from his shoulders. 

He could breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments. They make my day. THEY MAKE MY LIFE. <3


	3. Chapter 3

From a hundred to zero in no time flat. One moment Steve was walking down the street, hands in the pockets of his (new, not black) jeans headed toward the joint Bucky had texted him the address of. The next moment he was struck as if by lightning, albeit a lot less cool and noticeable, unable to keep moving, especially in the direction he should be. 

This happened sometimes. A fluttering of pale hands, a flash of dark hair, a brand of perfume, or a familiar coat: Steve’s heart skipped a beat, his adrenaline spiking almost imperceptibly, the stretch of a smile coloring his face as his body unwittingly prepared to call out, before he remembered. He always remembered. And it was never any less painful. 

Everything was thrown into sharp detail. The street, the disinterested mass of people who made up New York. Someone jostled his shoulder and the woman he’d seen who hadn’t been her because she was gone, disappeared among them. He blinked a few times and continued walking. Walking home.

He felt the pain swell up in his chest as he replayed the moment again and again, reminding himself painfully, ruthlessly that the jolt of familiarity he felt might never be stamped down and he needed to deal with it. Being reminded of Peggy Carter was inevitable and he really couldn't be running off every time it happened.

He inhaled sharply as he dropped his house keys in the bowl by the front door. He knew he should text Bucky, but somewhere between kicking off his shoes and angrily starting the Xbox so he could watch Netflix, he forgot.

As Neil Degrasse Tyson narrated over the rendering of a massive black hole, Steve’s doorbell rang. He ignored it at first, prayed whoever it was would go away, but then the knocking started. Incessantly loud knocking.

Steve growled at the TV and hefted himself off the couch. He tore open the door, ready to yell, and then immediately felt the crushing weight of guilt wash over him, effectively dampening his anger into something a lot sadder as he laid eyes on Bucky.

“Oh good, you’re alive,” Bucky said lightly and bent down to pick up two plastic bags off Steve’s front stoop. He had placed them down, Steve realized with a start, because he only had one hand to knock with. One arm. His left sleeve was rolled up against his shoulder. If Bucky noticed that Steve was looking, he didn’t show it, instead pushing past Steve into his house.

“Bucky…,” Steve said quietly. Bucky seemed unperturbed and he headed straight for the kitchen as if he knew the place, like he’d been there a thousand times before.

“I figured when you didn’t come that it was Dire Circumstances,” Bucky said. “Got your address from Sam – hope that’s not too creepy? And I hope you like Chinese?” 

Everything was a question, but Steve didn’t have any answers. He watched as Bucky busied himself around the kitchen, grabbing plates and silverware before picking the bags back up and turning to Steve.

“I saw _Cosmos_ on your TV. Are we watching _Cosmos_? I’ve seen ‘em all, but I wouldn’t mind a rewatch. Have you seen the original?” Bucky stopped a few feet from Steve and what Steve had taken as bravado actually looked more like false confidence turned into riotous nerves. 

“Bucky,” Steve said again. “What’s going on?”

Bucky swallowed and his eyes darted to the side. “Chinese?” he offered weakly, raising the plastic bags full of food.

Steve tried to react, tried to transform his face into something that said _please don’t run away because I’m as dysfunctional as they come, the kind of guy who stands you up and doesn’t even text to let you know_. 

“I can leave,” Bucky said, hardly more than a whisper.

Steve shook his head. “No. God, no, I’m sorry.” He stepped forward and took the bags out of Bucky’s hand and went around the couch. He started to pull out the food containers as Bucky came around and sat on the other side of the couch.

He handed Steve a plate and they wordlessly divvied up the food. Steve watched out of the corner of his eye as Bucky fidgeted with the chopsticks before finally opting for a fork. Neil was now waxing poetic about evolution and life and space. Steve didn’t hear a word of it, so hyperaware of Bucky at his side.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said maybe five minutes later. 

Steve looked over at him.

“I just… wanted to make it better. But I think I made it worse,” Bucky continued, motioning at the hodgepodge of takeout boxes.

Steve chewed for a long moment, swallowed, and replied, “You didn’t make it worse.” Bucky gave him a doubtful look to which Steve insisted, “You didn’t! I just… am so not in the realm of proper, civilized, personal interaction yet.”

“You don’t have to apologize-"

“I do,” Steve interrupted. “I should’ve called you. Texted. I meant to, but I just…” He put up his hands and let them fall again. 

“What happened?” Bucky asked.

Steve wanted to sidestep the question, like he did with Sam because Sam was _not_ his therapist, despite his actions to the contrary. But Bucky had asked because he wanted to know the answer, not what that answer meant in the grand scheme of things.

Steve shrugged. “I thought I saw her. It happens sometimes. But it’s always jarring, I guess.”

Bucky nodded slowly and stabbed a piece of chicken on his plate on the table. “Then you remembered she’s dead?”

Steve stared at Bucky, half in shock. He’d said it so blatantly and yet… he wasn’t being rude. Steve nodded.

“Yeah, I been there,” Bucky said to his plate before popping the bit of chicken in his mouth. 

“You…?” Steve stopped before he made an idiot of himself. He hadn’t thought about it because he’d become a selfish caricature of his old self, but of course Bucky had lost people. He’d been in a goddamn war, for chissakes. 

Bucky let out a long breath and leaned back into the couch. “The worst for me are the dreams. The ones where everything’s the same except they’re alive? Yeah, worse than the dreams where you actually see ‘em die. Because waking up and realizing all that relief, that happiness was fake? That’s worse.”

Steve felt his stomach sink and his heart quicken. He knew _exactly_ what Bucky meant. 

“Look, Steve,” Bucky said, turning to face him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. I’ve never lost a… spouse. But I know something about loss. So don’t feel like you gotta be embarrassed about cancelling, all right?”

Steve swallowed and nodded a few times. “Okay,” he said finally. “Sorry.”

“Already forgiven,” Bucky said, putting his hand up. “Just doesn’t make a lot of sense to be embarrassed around the guy with one arm.” He motioned to his left side and smiled.

Steve wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, but he smiled anyway. “Yeah, okay,” he said. 

They fell back into a comfortable silence, their attention once again on space exploration. Sometime later, the Xbox became worried about its viewers and asked if they were still watching. Steve reached forward and played the next episode.

“Space used to scare the shit out of me,” Steve admitted five minutes into the new episode. He could feel Bucky’s gaze on him. “It was all so much bigger than it had any right to be.”

“Made you feel small?”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe. That's not hard to do,” he said with a smile. He’d meant it as a joke, but Bucky frowned.

“You do that a lot, y’know?” Bucky said.

“What?”

“That thing where you say something bad about yourself and then smile as if it’s okay.”

Steve thought back through their conversation and couldn’t remember if he had been self-deprecating a lot recently. “Do I?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up. He clicked his tongue and said, “Sam wants to talk. That’s never a good sign. What’s today? Friday?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Wanna do something tomorrow?”

Steve wanted to say yes immediately, but what if he flaked again? How many times could he stand Bucky up before he realized Steve was never going to be reliable?

Bucky seemed to read his mind, or at least share the same hesitations. “I could meet you here. That way you can’t avoid me.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Steve corrected him.

Bucky’s expression switched to something burgeoning on debonair. “No need to lie. You were intimidated. Awestruck by my handsomeness. I get it. I’m pretty cute.”

“Conceited, too,” Steve noted, but couldn’t help the smile creeping back on his face.

Bucky’s face finally cracked and he smiled wide at Steve. “Self-assured.”

“Egotistical.”

“Confident!”

“Proud!”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Darcy was proud and he got a happy ending.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Mr. Darcy had to learn _not_ to be proud to get the girl,” he pointed out.

“Maybe I need a good teacher,” Bucky said, his voice growing deeper, huskier. It gave Steve the chills and he fidgeted uncomfortably. 

Bucky’s faux-confidence evaporated in an instant. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean to…”

Steve had an unwitting flashback to the first time Bucky had flirted with him, so long ago. He stared at Bucky, whose cheeks had gone beautifully pink, and wondered if he could do it. If he could take him upstairs and, well, _take him_. In the bed he and Peggy had shared, in the house he and Peggy had lived in together.

Steve shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said even though it was far from it. He smiled a little, then changed the subject. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

Bucky latched onto the topic like a fish desperate for water. “Anything! I’ve got the whole day, so it’s up to you.”

“Well, there’s a new exhibit at the Met-“

“Perfect! I’ll be here. How’s two o’clock?” Bucky’s eyes shone with delight and Steve couldn’t help but fill with giddy anticipation.

“Two is fine,” Steve said.

“Great!” Bucky said, punctuating the word with a slap to his knee. “It’s a not-date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even believe all the comments, you GUYS. That's so awesome.
> 
> Next chapter: a trip to the museum! I've never actually been to the The Met, despite the number of times I've been to NYC. i'm such a bad tourist smh. but when you live near DC, like I do, where all the museums are free? you get spoiled.


	4. Chapter 4

“So you never did tell me what you do for work,” Bucky said.

It was 2:30 and he and Steve had made it to the Met in record time. They were currently walking through a spacious hall with Greek statues. Bucky didn’t even pretend to know half of what he was looking at, but Steve was wide-eyed and serious, so Bucky couldn’t complain.

Steve glanced over at Bucky briefly before switching his gaze back on the 8-foot monstrosity of stone in front of him. “I don’t work anymore. I mean, not right now.”

“Well, yeah, I know. Besides being Tony’s personal decorator, apparently.” Bucky smiled at Steve and Steve rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I’d hardly call that a job.” Steve sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. He started to walk farther into the hall. This particular room wasn’t crowded, but the rest of the museum had been packed with tourists. It made Bucky’s skin crawl and his heart race, but he figured he could make it an hour at least. Plus Steve had looked _shocked_ when Bucky had shown up at his door, as if he hadn’t expected Bucky to show, which was just about the saddest thing ever.

“I have a guess,” Bucky said.

Steve gave him a curious look. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied with a grin. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I thought artist, y’know? Then, maybe not. When we first met you had that look about you – like you weren’t a kid, but maybe you spent a lot of time with ‘em? So, teacher. But not high school or anything. You were a college professor.”

Steve frowned, his eyes growing comically big behind his glasses. “How’d you-?” He slowly came to realize Bucky’s grin was less triumphant and more mischievous. “Sam told you.”

“Yeah, it may have come up,” Bucky admitted. “Professor Rogers, huh?”

Steve nodded. “Yep. Graphic Design. But that wasn’t my main profession.”

That surprised Bucky. When he had spoken to Sam last night, he’d made it sound like Steve was a teacher first and foremost. He hadn’t mentioned anything else.

“I’m a freelancer,” Steve continued. “Graphic design. Or at least, I was. Peggy was my partner so after she… Well, it was hard enough to do it on my own. Without a partner, all the work got a lot more difficult.” He chewed the inside of his cheek nervously as his eyes roamed the room in search of something. They finally landed on Bucky and he shrugged. 

Peggy. So, that was dead mystery woman’s name. Bucky tucked the information away for later.

“What kinda work did you do?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, a ton of stuff. We did an ad campaign for the YMCA, created a logo and did the brand design for a local brewery, we even designed a banner for a museum in Richmond for one of their new exhibits.”

“Shit, are you, like, famous or something?”

Steve laughed. “No. God, no. I mean, not really. You may have seen the stuff we made, but you’d never know who did it.” 

“And you don’t mind?”

“What?”

“Not having recognition for your work?”

Steve shrugged and led them out of the hall into the next spacious room. There must have been a chronological order or something because the paintings looked vaguely Renaissance-y. Which was really more than could be expected of Bucky to know. 

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. “Our work is on our website. If someone goes looking for a designer, they’ll find us. Well, not right now, obviously. The website is down.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Bucky knew Steve wasn’t comfortable thinking about his late wife’s death so the fact that Bucky had gotten this much out of Steve was something of a miracle, but he wasn’t sure where to go from there. Should he press on? It was more than curiosity. Discovering how she had died could reveal a whole lot about Steve’s predicament. There’s a big difference between losing someone suddenly and being able to prepare for it. Bucky knew both sides of that horrid coin and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how Steve must have felt having lost someone so apparently close to him.

“So, what about you?” Steve asked. This room, covered with portraits of uppity looking aristocrats, was a bit more crowded and Bucky made a note of each of them as well as all the exits.

“What about me?” Bucky asked.

“What’d you do before you went off to fight the good fight?”

Bucky almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. “Uh, a whole lot of nothing.”

“Well, that can’t be true. You were, what? 26 when we met? You did nothing for the first 26 years of your life?”

“Yup,” Bucky agreed with a smile. Steve gave him a withering look and, true, Steve had given him a straight answer, so it was the least Bucky could do. “I did some construction work, mostly, for my dad’s old company.”

Steve made a noise and nodded. “That explains it.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Explains what?”

“The…” Steve paused and his cheeks turned red. It made Bucky smile. “Y’know,” Steve said with a grimace. “The… abs. Or whatever.”

Bucky let out a loud bark of a laugh that made heads turn, but he didn’t care. 

“Oh, shut up,” Steve said, but he was clearly hiding a smile behind his hand. 

They continued through the different exhibits, each one blending into the next until Bucky couldn’t name any single piece of art he’d seen under threat of death. Art had never been his thing, but it clearly was Steve’s. Bucky got more soulful enjoyment out of watching Steve than any colorful painting of a horse. The way his eyes roamed all over a tapestry or statue, seeing things Bucky didn’t even have a name for, he was sure: shadows and contours and whatever-the-fuck-else. It was more fun to watch Steve, anyway, work of art that he was. He looked older, but it had less to do with his skin or hair and more to do with the depth of his eyes. Like when they looked, they really saw something, like there was a whole other story behind them. 

Bucky was determined to learn it.

They lingered a bit longer in an exhibit on Ancient Egypt, which must have been the one Steve had mentioned the day before, but it was so packed Bucky was beginning to exhibit his all-too familiar symptoms. Maybe Steve noticed, although Bucky considered himself something of an expert at hiding his discomfort when he had to, or maybe he really was done, but three hours after wandering around the Met, Steve finally turned to Bucky and asked, “Should we get dinner?”

Bucky nodded a few times because he didn’t trust his voice.

Once they were out on the streets, it was better. The warm air and a plethora of escape routes put Bucky at ease. He pushed his hair out of his face and wished, for about the 12 millionth time, that he had a left arm to put his damn hair up with. One of the many reasons Tony’s prosthetic couldn’t come sooner. 

They walked. Bucky followed Steve’s lead; he looked like he knew where he was going. 

“So, what’d Sam want to talk about yesterday?” Steve asked. He put out a hand. “Unless it was personal. I’m not trying to pry.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, it’s fine. He’s been trying to find me a job, actually. I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

Steve looked at Bucky, his eyebrows raised. “Seriously? You didn’t say anything.”

Bucky didn’t point out the fact that they barely knew one another and it therefore wasn’t strange that Bucky hadn’t mentioned it.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky said. Lie. Just talking about it caused the tight curl of anxiety to twist and burn in his stomach. “Anyway, that’s not really what he wanted to talk about.” 

Steve gave Bucky a questioning look.

“He asked how I knew you.”

“Oh.” 

Bucky could see the question wanting to burst from Steve’s mouth.

“I didn’t tell him the truth,” Bucky said and Steve relaxed, almost invisibly, but Bucky was perceptive. 

“Oh,” Steve said again.

“Figured it wasn’t his business. Also figured you weren’t the type to do one-night stands and I didn’t wanna shock Sam into a rage or something.”

Bucky had meant it as a joke, but Steve frowned deeply. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“What do you mean ‘What do I mean?’” 

“How do you know I wasn’t the type to…?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve as they paused at a crosswalk. “Seriously? You’d just broken up with your asshole boyfriend. And anyway, you just didn’t seem like the type-“

“You don’t know me. You _didn’t_ know me,” Steve snapped, far more angry than he had any reason to be.

Bucky put up his hand. “Sorry,” he said quickly, sincerely. _How the hell had he messed this up in so short a time?_

Steve shook his head and stared ahead as the white walking man blinked to life across the street. “Y’know, I’m not feeling well,” Steve said, his voice low.

The panic rose in Bucky’s chest. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, what did he do? How did he fuck this up?_ He clenched at the fabric of his shirt as if it would keep him from floating away. “Oh,” Bucky said weakly, incapable of hiding the hurt in his voice.

“Um, thanks for the…” Steve waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Y’know. The museum and stuff. Had fun.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

Had fun.

That’s all Bucky got. _Had fun._ Like he was an overbearing aunt forcing his nephew to do something he clearly didn’t like. Steve hadn’t been obligated to go. Had he? Had Bucky been reading this all wrong?

And then the pieces slid into place. Of course Steve had come to the museum. Bucky had basically forced himself into Steve’s life, into his home. And Steve was a Good Guy, so it’s not like he was gonna force the traumatized, one-armed veteran out of his house. And what else was he gonna say to that same crazy guy when he asked if they could hang out again, even though Steve had just made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship, romantic or otherwise, by _standing him up_. People don’t ask to be friends with people who stand them up. It doesn’t work like that. He’d taken Steve by surprise and now he was finally getting the guts to let Bucky down.

Bucky had been so stupid. So fucking stupid. And then he’d gone and reminded Steve of a night that he no doubt considered a mistake. A huge mistake in his otherwise flawless life where he’d had a good job and a wife. He didn’t need to be reminded by Bucky that he’d made mistakes. Because that’s what Bucky was to Steve.

He was a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhh
> 
> i never meant for this to get sad??? in fact, i never really planned for them to fight EVER. which of course means they'll make up!! eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve’s phone buzzed loudly against the surface of the coffee table. His eyes flicked to the phone, he reached out a hand, and turned the screen toward him where he lay stomach-down on the couch. “Sam W.” lit up the front screen with a ridiculous picture of the man holding two thumbs up and a big smile plastered on his face. He’d taken it years ago and Steve still hadn’t changed it. It used to make him laugh, but right now all Steve wanted to do was punch that stupid grin off his face.

Okay, that wasn’t fair. Sam was trying to help in the best way he knew how: constant pestering. This was, in fact, his sixth phone call to Steve in the past four hours. Like the others, it would go unanswered.

Steve sighed and let the phone ring out face down on the table. He returned his gaze to the TV where Buffy was kicking some serious vampire ass. He’d seen this episode – and every other – upwards of five or six times, which is why it acted as good background noise to Steve’s tumultuous thinking.

Two days ago he’d stood up Bucky for lunch, had an impromptu dinner with him that night, the next day went with him to a museum, and had backed out of lunch again. He was clearly giving off an unstable vibe, and frankly, he _felt_ unstable. He swore the museum visit had been great, but then he’d thought too much and panicked and been a total fucking asshole. He’d hurt Bucky’s feelings, he’d seen it on the man’s face when he left. Bucky had lost people, had lost his _arm_ and Steve was the one acting like a total basket case.

So, he’d completely ruined it with Bucky. Honestly, that sucked, but it was unavoidable. Steve wasn’t in any condition to be making new friends, even if he knew Bucky in some ways better than he knew any of his real friends. That was part of the reason he’d freaked out yesterday. It was so _easy_ being around him, it was like they’d been friends for years already. That was dangerous. Because if Steve liked him now, then he could imagine what it’d be like a month from now, a year.

And that couldn’t happen.

So, he’ll watch Buffy kick vampire ass until he dies, old and alone, thank you very much.

The phone vibrated again and Steve let out an angry, exasperated noise. Sam would never quit, but Steve’s resolve was strong. He fell asleep. 

He woke to the grinding, angry sound of his phone vibrating. Again. In a fit of fury, Steve snatched the phone off the table and answered it with a gruff, “What?”

“I can’t do this.”

It wasn’t Sam.

“I can’t, I can’t do this. This is just – it’s not me, okay? I can’t. I said I could. I lied. Okay, I lied. I have to – I can’t be here.”

Bucky sounded strange, and not just because Steve had never heard him on the phone before. He was clearly panicked and it made Steve’s own heart rate pick up. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair as Bucky rambled on: “It’s too much, okay? Jesus, I’m so fucking – Fuck. I need time. I need some fucking time, okay? Can you just – can I have that? Can I have time or something? Or like, I don’t know, just something to – I can’t do this.”

Steve swallowed. “Bucky?”

There was a long pause and then: “Shit. Steve? Fuck. I thought I called Sam. Your names are right next to each other, I must’ve – fuck. Just, ignore me, okay?”

“Is everything okay?”

“No, everything’s great!” Bucky’s voice was two octaves too high and the panic was nearly palpable.

“Where are you?”

“Nowhere. Honestly, Steve, I’m sorry I called, I didn’t mean to – Look, I’ll delete your number.”

“Bucky, where are you?” 

There was another pause. “East Village. Corner of 2nd Ave and 4th Street. The… bank. Why?”

“Just stay where you are. I’ll be there.”

“Steve, you don’t –.”

“I’ll be there, Bucky,” Steve said defiantly.

“Okay,” Bucky replied weakly. He sounded so tired.

  


* * *

  


It was a 15-minute cab ride, made longer by traffic, but when Steve had a mind to do something, it was going to get done no matter what. And he needed to be there for Bucky. Because he’d been where Bucky was, had felt that panic, that echo-y voice telling him over and over that _he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t_. If there was one thing Steve did understand, even before Peggy was gone, it was panic. He could help Bucky. He _wanted_ to help Buck.

Steve saw him as soon as he hopped out of the cab. Bucky was sitting on the steps in front of the bank with his head in his hands. He was dressed incredibly well – black suit jacket and pants, polished shoes. His hair was pulled back away from his face and had probably looked suave before he’d messed it up. Now tendrils were falling around his hands. 

Hands plural because apparently he’d gotten that prosthetic back. Or maybe it was a new one, Steve didn’t know. 

That’s when Steve remembered what Bucky had told him the day before: he had a job interview.

Steve jogged up the steps until he came up next to Bucky. He didn’t look up, so Steve sat down next to him and knocked Bucky’s knee with his own. Bucky’s head shot up and he looked beyond surprised to see Steve there. Steve smiled at him.

“Steve,” Bucky said. “You… You’re here.”

“I said I’d be, right? Which I realize is not actually something you can rely on.” He gave Bucky what he hoped was an apologetic look.

Bucky didn’t smile. He stared at Steve instead, eyes flicking between Steve’s as if searching for something. 

“So, I guess the interview didn’t go as well as you wanted?” Steve asked tentatively.

The question seemed to shake whatever stupor Bucky was in. He looked away, out to the street beyond. “It didn’t go at all,” he said quietly.

Steve nodded. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Bucky looked back at Steve in confusion, his eyebrows pinched together. “Look,” Bucky said. “I’m not saying I’m not grateful or anything, but I thought you – Well, I thought this was sort of over.” He gestured between them with a finger.

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I’m sorry. Mixed signals. And I’m not gonna lie and tell you I’m gonna be totally easy to read from now on, but… I am sorry. I shouldn’t have stood you up, I shouldn’t have left yesterday without a… real explanation. I just…” Steve crossed his arms across his chest and looked down at his feet. “Peggy was my world and now she’s gone and doing things – anything – without her feels _wrong_. Especially with you. Given our sordid past,” Steve added with a little smile. “I feel guilty or something. I don’t know. It’s stupid because Peggy – she _forbid me_ from acting like this, but here I am, pushing away the only person who can understand what I’m going through. I’m trying, okay? Or, I’m going to try. If you’ll let me, I mean. I’d like to be friends.”

Bucky stared at Steve a moment before he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Friends.” A pause, then he sighed loudly. “Sam is going to murder me.”

“Did you call him?”

“Not yet.”

Steve thought a moment. “Come home with me. We can order in, watch TV. You won’t even have to force your way inside.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, averting his gaze to his feet.

“I’m not asking,” Steve replied with a grin. 

Bucky looked at him and finally smiled. “All right then,” he said. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do.” Steve stood and held out his hand. Bucky took it and Steve pulled him to his feet.

  


* * *

  


“Shit, it’s Sam,” Bucky said, staring down at his phone in his lap. They were both seated on Steve’s couch, a box of pizza open on the coffee table while _Cosmos_ played in the background.

“Here,” Steve said around a bite of food. “Gimme.” He held his hand out for the phone and Bucky gave it to him with a raised eyebrow. Steve thumbed the answer button and said, “Hey Sam, it’s Steve. Gimme one second, okay?” Steve put the phone back onto his lap and looked back at Bucky. In a lowered voice, he asked, “Am I right in assuming you’re not very interested in finance?”

Bucky shrugged. “I did some bookkeeping for my dad’s business, so it’s the only real work experience I have that isn’t physical labor-related. That’s why Sam thought it’d be a good idea.”

“Right. But you wouldn’t be happy there, would you?”

“I mean, maybe for awhile. But not forever. Why are you asking me this shit? Talk to Sam!”

Steve nodded and brought the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that.”

“Steve,” Sam said through the phone. “What the hell are you doing on Bucky’s phone? This had better be why you’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“My phone’s dead,” Steve lied easily. “But look, that’s not why I’m talking to you. I’m trying to yell at you.”

“Yell at _me_?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“Yeah! You wanted Bucky to work at a _bank_? How fucking boring is that?”

“Steve, you don’t exactly know the whole story, here. Bucky’s-.”

“Not interested in working finance,” Steve cut in. “Look, it doesn’t matter, because I’ve found him a job.”

Bucky’s head shot up at that, eyes wide. Steve held out a placating hand. 

“You did?” Sam asked skeptically.

“Yeah. I mean, you know Peggy did all the money shit and I thought, if I’m gonna get back into it, I’ll need help. And this means I won’t have to interview anyone. Win-win.”

“And Bucky’s okay with this?”

“Is Bucky okay with this?” Steve repeated, giving Bucky a look. Bucky gave him a tentative thumbs-up. “Yeah, he’s great with it. Two thumbs-up.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless.

“Mmhmm,” Sam replied dubiously. “Well, if you say so. I’m gonna need proof of employment, not just for me. It’s for the program. Anyway, he’s told you all about it, _I’m sure_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asked defensively.

“It means _I’m sure_ you didn’t make up an excuse to keep him from getting chastised by me just now, and _I’m sure_ he isn’t sitting right there with you, completely capable of telling me all this himself, and _I’m sure_ you discussed this with him at length.”

“Totally,” Steve said and Sam barked out a laugh.

“Look, I’m not complaining but only because I think you two can help each other. And if his being there means you get back to work? Hell, two birds with one stone. Just tell him to call me tonight? Please?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“And you call me too.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay, bye Sam.” Steve hung up before he was guilted into promising. He handed the phone back to Bucky who looked bewildered.

“What just happened?” Bucky asked.

“Got you a job working for me. If you want it. Obviously, you don’t have to take it. We can always tell Sam something didn’t pan out.”

“What would I be doing?”

“Finances. Sorry. I realize it’s not what you want to do, but-”

“No, that’s fine. It’s great. I’d much rather work for you than some corporation.”

“That’s what I was hoping for. Plus, it’s not all boring. You get to work with clients and they’re always a little off-kilter. Artists, y’know?”

Bucky smiled a little. “Yeah, I’m beginning to get that.”

Steve smiled back. He leaned into the couch and picked up his abandoned slice of pizza. “We can talk details later, yeah? But you can look to start as soon as Monday if you want.”

“Here?” Bucky asked, looking around.

Steve shook his head. “No, we have a– I have a studio in town. I’ll send you the address.”

“Are you sure this is okay? I mean, you barely know me. You haven’t even looked at my résumé or anything.”

That was true. For all Steve knew, Bucky could be lying about everything. But if nothing else, Steve trusted Sam and Sam seemed to trust Bucky, so that was enough. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll look at your résumé,” Steve said. “But I doubt Sam would allow me to fraternize with a serial killer.”

Bucky snorted a laugh. “Okay, then.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, not quite able to hide the excitement in his voice.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied with equal enthusiasm.

They were ten minutes into the next episode when Steve asked, “So, what are you interested in?”

Bucky put down the glass of water he’d been drinking from and looked at Steve. “What do you mean? Like, hobbies and shit?”

“No, I mean, for a career. You said you worked for your dad before, but that’s it. What’d you go to college for?”

Bucky’s cheeks warmed at the question and Steve instantly regretted asking.

“I, uh,” Bucky started. “I never went.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to assume,” Steve said.

Bucky shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. I always wanted to go. That’s why I worked for my dad in the first place. Saving up money to go, but it’s so fucking expensive unless you get a scholarship and I was a shit student in high school. So then I joined the Army because they’d pay my way through, except I got deployed and now here we are.”

“Well, why don’t you go back to school now?” Steve asked.

Again, Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems kinda pointless. I’d be the oldest one there. It’d be weird being surrounded by a bunch of 20-somethings, y’know?”

“I can assure you that’s not true. I taught so many non-traditional students,” Steve said. “I think you should look into it. Especially if the government is paying for it anyway.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, but his attention was back on the screen.

“What did you want to study?” Steve asked.

Bucky gave Steve a guilty little smile. “English, actually.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t look like a nerd, but I assure you, deep down, I am.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, well, English was my original plan. But seems like a waste. What the hell would I do with an English degree?”

“Does it matter? You’ll have a job. Look, I’m not saying you have to make a decision right now, but you’ll have downtime when you work for me. Periods when not a whole lot is happening. And it would be totally possible to do school at the same time. That’s why I was a professor, too, see? Just consider it, okay?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments! They're amazing.
> 
> I've been meaning to say a few things about this fic. Firstly, I never wanted to kill Peggy. It feels too much like a cop-out, that grossly familiar killing-the-girl-to-further-the-manpain trope and I never wanted that because I love Peggy to pieces. So, I hope that's not what this feels like, because I honestly tried to find another way to write this story, but nothing quite equated to Bucky losing a limb and his fellow soldiers like Steve losing a wife. And I'll be honest that dealing with Steve's grief is my own weird way of dealing with my own grief after losing my dad a few months ago, so really. I'm hoping it doesn't come off as fridging Peggy, and if it does I'm really sorry and I know intentions mean fuck-all at the end of the day BUT I REALLY LOVE PEGGY, I PROMISE. No one's specifically brought this up, by the way, I just wanted to make sure you all knew I was well aware of what this looks this.
> 
> Secondly, Steve's job as a graphic designer is literally my sister-in-law's job. Right now she's just a freelancer, but she was an adjunct professor and those projects he listed are things she did. So, how's that for ~creativity~ lmao. No, but really, it's an awesome job.
> 
> Okay, I'm out. Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting. Makes me so fucking happy. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Working for Steve for the past three weeks had been the best thing to ever happen to Bucky. First and foremost, it kept him occupied. Before starting work, he’d filled his days with endless thinking, mulling over every decision he’d ever made (should’ve left sooner, been more careful, watched better, not taken so many risks, kept his men safe…) and ultimately hating himself more with every passing day.

Waking up at 8 in the morning to be at the office by 9, lunch at 12, leave by 5 – it was a routine that helped Bucky stay on track both mentally and emotionally. Sam noted the distinct change in Bucky’s demeanor. According to his notes, Bucky was “less reticent, more forthcoming, more likely to take initiative.” 

Bucky’s work – which for the first week was collecting overdue bills and paying them – involved a lot of e-mail and telephone communication. At first, it was replying to old clients and potential clients to let them know the “unfortunate circumstances” that caused Steve to fall off the face of the earth. Bucky was good at that – he could type a mean sympathy-grabbing e-mail.

Steve had been at the office every day when Bucky first started, but now that Bucky was essentially self-sufficient, he showed up maybe three times a week. The other days were spent in long meetings with clients. Steve had dropped three different projects when Peggy had died, including one for an ornery local restaurant owner who kept inviting Steve over to his sub-par Italian eatery to show off his newly designed logo and menus for four hours. The other two dropped clients had been more understanding.

Now, Steve was looking for new clients. Just a couple to ease back into the work since it’d been so long since he’d done all of the actual work by himself. Bucky wished he could be of more help, but Steve had once asked him which of two identical fonts he liked better and the blank stare he gave in return made Steve double-over in laughter. So Bucky wasn’t a graphic designer, but he _could_ convince a potential client to wait three months for a consultation. 

The days that Steve was in the office were Bucky’s favorite because he had someone to talk to and as conversation partners went, Steve was one of the best. Bucky learned Steve was one of the most sharp-witted, bitter little balls of ferocious anger he’d ever met. The first time Steve went off on an unsolicited tirade about the porn industry, Bucky almost took out his phone to record it; it truly was a sight to behold. By the end, Bucky himself had wanted to draft a letter to the president when ten minutes earlier he couldn’t have given less of a fuck.

Steve, as it turned out, was passionate about a lot of things and the more Bucky learned about him, the more he liked him. Bucky wouldn’t deny that the guy was attractive, yeah, but Steve fast became one of his best and most important friends, too. 

It wasn’t a one-sided friendship, either, as Bucky quickly discovered when he’d one day skipped out on a weekly meeting with Sam in favor of a beer with Clint, and Steve had been livid the next morning. Ignoring the fact that Sam had tattled to his boss like a 10-year-old, Steve’s fear for Bucky’s wellbeing was touching, if a little off-putting. Bucky hadn’t skipped a session since.

Steve had also convinced Bucky to take a few college courses. Summer was the perfect time, Steve had argued, because the courses were more intensive, but only a month long. Steve had also convinced him to enroll at the college he had taught at which was a mere four blocks from their office building.

Classes started soon and Bucky was dreading it, but it was the sort of anxiety that was a good distraction from the rest of the bullshit he had to deal with. Namely, Stark constantly pestering Bucky about maintaining his public presence for the sake of his campaign to get funding for the biomechanical prosthetics. If Stark had his way, Bucky’s full-time job would be a living mannequin for his weekly galas and televised interviews. As it was, Bucky had more important things to do. Of course, Stark believed the proper incentive was to withhold Bucky’s own promised prosthetic, which was just as well.

Living without his arm was difficult, yeah, but not impossible. And on particularly stressful days, he would just forgo all textual communication for a simple phone call. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from daydreaming about being able to type with two hands.

Bucky shifted the bag on his shoulder as he unlocked the front door to the office and stepped through. Steve was already inside judging by the sound of Jimmy Dorsey playing from one of the two iMacs in the main room. 

“Morning,” Bucky greeted as he came around to his desk and slung his bag over the chair. 

“Hey,” Steve replied, turning down the music. “Fair warning – I think you’re going to have about 20 e-mails from Simone regarding that logo this morning. We sort of got into it yesterday and I made the mistake of telling her to just e-mail me all the corrections she wanted before I remembered that the e-mail address she has is yours. You can just forward them.”

“Only 20?” Bucky asked as he powered up the computer. “Simone’s off her game.”

“I was being optimistic.”

They fell into a comfortable silence interrupted only by the quiet sound of jazz still coming from Steve’s computer. 

“Oh, I got my class schedule today,” Bucky announced just as Outlook opened on his computer and the inbox alerted him to 36 new e-mails.

“Mm. Let’s hear it,” Steve said, leaning back in his chair.

Bucky pulled the paper he’d printed out this morning from his bag. “Uh, I’ve got an intro biology course with a Dr. Foster.”

“Jane, yeah. She’s great. I mean, as a person. I’m sure I would flunk her class, but it’ll be fine.”

Bucky frowned at Steve. “Thanks.”

Steve smiled wide, something Bucky had started calling his shit-eating grin; he did it a lot.

“I’ve got intro to art.”

“Oo, art in the dark,” Steve said, nodding his head. “I had to teach that for a few semesters. It was awful.”

Bucky gave Steve a hard look. “You’re really not doing anything to ease this college anxiety, y’know.”

Steve put up a hand. “Sorry. Who’s teaching art?”

Bucky looked back at the schedule. “Rumlow.” He looked back at Steve to gauge a reaction, but Steve had suddenly become very interested in the pencil holder on his desk.

“Is she…” Bucky looked at the schedule to find the first name: Brock. “He… good? Bad? Anything?”

“He’s fine,” Steve said with a weak little smile still aimed at the pencil holder. 

“Okay,” Bucky said slowly and tucked that interaction away for perusal later. “And then my only other class is English 101 with Odinson.” Bucky looked at Steve. “That’s not really his first name, is it? Thor?”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, it is. You have the holy duo, by the way.”

“What?”

“Thor and Dr. Foster. They’re married. You’d never guess it, except then you take one of Thor’s classes and apparently he never stops waxing poetic about her.”

“You know ‘em well?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, we used to hang out a lot. The art and English departments are on the same side of campus, so Thor and I are close and I met Jane through Thor.”

Bucky cocked his head slightly. “You don’t hang out with them anymore.” It wasn’t a question. Unless Steve was lying about meeting with clients, he hadn’t done anything social beyond having the occasional lunch with Sam and/or Bucky for the past month.

“Haven’t had the time, I guess,” Steve said with a shrug, although the brief look of guilt did not go unnoticed.

Bucky went to ask, but then the office phone rang and he added it to the list of questions he wanted Steve to answer one day.

  


* * *

  


Bucky recognized Thor almost immediately after entering the large classroom. It didn’t come as a surprise when he asked for Bucky to stay after class, either.

“Steve told me his new partner would be in my class,” Thor said by way of greeting. “But he did not mention we’d met before.” He held out a large hand and Bucky shook it.

“Oh, I’m not his partner,” Bucky corrected. “And we didn’t really _meet_ so much as run into one another. Literally.”

Thor laughed then, a boisterously loud thing that was equally shocking as it was delightful. Bucky smiled along.

“Yes, it was the first time Steve had left the house in so long, when he asked if I should like to come to Stark’s… _party_ , I jumped at the opportunity.”

“Oh, so you don’t really know Tony, then?”

“No. At least not in any official capacity. Of course I’m aware of what he did for Peggy, but I only met him twice or perhaps three times.”

“Right,” Bucky replied. He wanted to ask what Tony had done, but felt he’d be overstepping his bounds, assuming Thor even decided to share that information. Still, whatever Tony did must have been big because it was presumably the reason Steve acted like his personal decorator.

“I’m glad that Steve has finally decided to get back to work. It’s good for him,” Thor continued.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. 

“I just wanted to add that if you had anything to do with that – you have my thanks. Steve wasn’t doing well for a long time. Understandable, but still incredibly disheartening not being able to help. Now, at least, he has something to focus on. The fact that he called me is a miracle in and of itself.”

“Steve… He’s been doing okay,” Bucky said. “You can tell he’s still… Well, y’know.”

Thor nodded in understanding. “I have another class to teach. It was good to meet you, James.”

“Oh, Bucky. Please.”

“Bucky,” Thor repeated. He smiled and left Bucky alone in the classroom to collect his things.

  


* * *

  


Steve was right about the amount of non-traditional students. He’d only been to English with Thor and now Art with Rumlow, but Bucky wasn’t the oldest by a long shot. There had to be at least three students over the age of 40 in Reynolds Hall, an ancient theatre outfitted with a projector that acted as a gen ed art room. Granted, it was a large class. Bucky appreciated that and took a seat in the back of the room where he was less likely to get called on.

Rumlow wasn’t anyone to write home about. It was an art history course, so Bucky figured the guy probably wanted to be there about as much as anyone else, but something about him irked Bucky. Maybe it had everything to do with Steve’s reaction to hearing his name on Bucky’s schedule. Then again, maybe not. Either way, it was boring as hell and started at one in the afternoon so that by the time they got out around 3:30, Bucky was ready to crash.

But Steve had convinced him to take all three of his classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so instead of searching for a place to nap like he really wanted, he instead found his way into the science building and Dr. Foster’s lab room.

Dr. Foster was incredibly bright, that much was clear. And despite the fact that it was a 101 class, it was bound to be trying. Bucky was going to have to remember how to study…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long to post this chapter and it's noT EVEN LONG OR GOOD???? my god.
> 
> in all honesty, i had this written a few days ago but didn't want to post it because I thought there might be more regarding Bucky at college. But at that point I didn't have any concrete details as to what was going to happen next.
> 
> good news is NOW I DO! hopefully that means I'll get more writing done, but work has been crazy busy lately so don't hold your breath. 
> 
> HOWEVER, next chapter, THINGS WILL HAPPEN!! So that should make up for this chapter, hopefully. Thank you, as always, for commenting and reading. Really, it makes me so happy that anyone reads this shit. So awesome.
> 
> And while you're waiting for the next chapter, feel free to join me on [tumblr](http://jaaqen.tumblr.com).
> 
> ALSO, [Elizabeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/camwolfe) and I are working on filling a [Collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StuckyAUs) with little, cute Steve/Bucky AUs based on those AU prompt posts you see floating around Tumblr. So if you're looking for fluffy, one-shot meetcute fics, head on over!


	7. Chapter 7

The summer passed far too quickly for Steve’s liking. The only good thing was that his birthday was over and done with – and his friends had graciously only had a little get-together instead of the blowout they had a few years ago that nearly sent Steve to the hospital. (Asthma and surprises hardly mix.)

Bucky was a godsend as Steve got back into the swing of things. He had a natural gift for interpersonal communications, which had always been Peggy’s forte. But it still wasn’t easy. Steve needed a partner – a real partner who could critique what he did. There were online forums for that kind of thing, but that felt too impersonal and there was always the risk of poachers looking to steal designs.

Steve thought he could do it – the meeting-with-clients thing – but it was seriously cutting into his production time and he knew Bucky was already too bogged down with administrative duties to do it.

Steve needed a new partner. Luckily for Steve, she came straight to his front door.

“Darcy? What are you doing here?” Steve asked. His office was generally off-limits to friends since he wanted to keep it a professional space and he wasn’t about to let Tony get any ideas for another get-together.

She held out a manila folder, which Steve took dubiously. “What’s this?” he asked.

“My résumé,” she replied sweetly. She craned her neck to see past him. “Okay, I’m coming in.” She pushed past Steve. “Bucky!” she shouted up the stairs that led to their office space. “I’m coming up! Make yourself decent.”

Steve followed Darcy up the stairs, opening the folder she’d handed him on the way. Inside, was a condensed version of her portfolio, professional references (including one from himself), a résumé, and a cover letter. 

Steve hit the landing just in time to hear Darcy say derisively, “God, I thought you were keyed into aesthetics, Steve.”

“Wha-?” he started, then took a long, hard look at their office space. Okay, it could definitely go for a makeover. But the color of the walls was the last thing on his mind. 

“This set up is just a… Bucky, you never said anything?” Darcy asked, turning on the other man with hands on her hips.

Bucky’s eyes grew wide and his eyebrows rose. He shrugged and shot Steve a strange look. Steve rolled his eyes in kind.

“Hey!” Darcy snapped at Steve who actually jumped at the assault. “Don’t roll your eyes.”

“I… didn’t.”

“I just saw you. Doesn’t matter. Look, Thor told me you were complaining about all the work you have to do and how hard it is on your own, so I’m offering you my services.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

Darcy sighed. “I know it’s weird. And honestly, you say no and I walk out that door without another word. But I think you should consider it. I’m good. You know I’m good. I’m not here to take lead. I just think I could help. So. Consider it?”

Steve chewed the inside of his cheek a moment. “I don’t need to think about it,” he said. “You’re hired.”

Darcy threw a fist into the air. “Fuck yeah,” she said. She turned back to the office. “Okay, the first thing to go are these chairs…”

  


* * *

  


With Darcy on their team, Steve was able to spend more time at the office instead of at client meetings and therefore more time with Bucky who had fast become his best friend and only confidante. It was also helpful since Bucky had started up classes again for the fall semester, taking a full load of credits on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Steve still felt the loss of Peggy like an open wound, but lately it was a little less sharp, like the uncomfortable sensation felt after scarification. And sometimes when he was with Bucky, he forgot that he was supposed to be wounded at all. Steve relished their happy routine, the good-natured back and forth banter and ribbing. For the first time in a long time, Steve didn’t feel fragile.

Steve was messing with paintbrushes on Photoshop when Bucky showed up for work looking unusually happy on a Wednesday morning. Generally speaking, the smiling didn’t start until after he’d had a cup of coffee, but today he practically skipped to his desk.

“Good night?” Steve asked with a smirk.

Bucky looked surprised at the question and shrugged, but couldn’t hide the smile. Steve laughed lightly. “What happened? You look like you won the lottery. Was the test cancelled yesterday or something?”

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, I wish. Think I did okay, though,” he added thoughtfully.

Steve shook his head with a small smile. 

Bucky sat heavily in his chair. “I got asked out on a date.”

Something twisted slightly in Steve’s chest. He quickly tapped it down. “Yeah? You say yes?”

There was a loud pounding of footsteps on the stairs as Darcy ran up to the office, coming to halt at the open door, wide-eyed and out of breath. “WHO?” she demanded loudly.

Bucky started laughing, a deep thing that touched his eyes. “You heard that from all the way downstairs?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and looking impressed.

“Quit avoiding the question, loverboy. Did you say yes? Who is it? A guy? Girl? Neither? Both? God, I’m just now realizing I know nothing about you and this is far more exciting than my next appointment so feel free to tell me everything, consequently making me late.”

“Please don’t be late to a client meeting,” Steve admonished.

She waved her hand at him and walked over to perch herself on Bucky’s desk. 

“Yeah, well, yeah. I said yes,” Bucky said and the way the flush crept his neck was endearing. “And it’s a guy.”

Darcy cooed. “Where are you going?”

“Some Italian place.”

“Fancy,” Darcy whispered. “God, he must be a romantic. What’s he like?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but grinned all the same. “I dunno. Funny? Smart. Hot as hell.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know him that well. I just met him over the summer.”

“Oh,” Darcy said with a nod. “A fellow student. God, I’m so jealous.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Steve asked.

Darcy turned to him with a frown. “Ian and I have been dating for, like, a million years-”

“A year.”

“-and it’s nice remembering the beginning stages of _romance_.” She turned back to Bucky. “When’s the date?”

“Tonight.”

Darcy gasped. “Are you gonna get dressed up and shit? Can I _help_?”

Bucky laughed. “I think I’m good. Thank you, though.”

Darcy tisked and shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m off to a meeting. I just came to drop off the notes from yesterday.” She pulled a folder out of her bag and handed it over to Steve. “I expect a full report on Friday,” she added, pointing at Bucky accusingly. She left in a hurry, slamming the front door behind her.

Bucky shook his head and powered up his computer.

“In all seriousness,” Steve said, putting Darcy’s notes to the side, “congrats. Hope you have fun.”

Bucky smiled and he almost looked nervous. “Yeah, thanks.”

  


* * *

  


It was getting late, the autumn weather meaning the sun was no longer sticking around past 7, and Bucky received a phone call on his cell. He answered with nervous fingers, Steve watching curiously from behind his computer.

“Yeah,” Bucky said into the phone. “Great! I’ll be right down.” He laughed at something and said, “Bye,” before hanging up. “That was my date,” Bucky said, his voice giving away his eagerness.

Steve leaned back with a grin. “Oh yeah? He here?”

Bucky gave Steve a look. “I know you’re not _beyond_ embarrassing me, but at least wait until the second date, yeah?”

Steve waved his hand in the air. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Have fun.”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah. I’ll see you Friday.” Thirty seconds later, Steve heard the front door open and close. He almost convinced himself not to look, but really what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t know what the guy who took out his friend looked like? Not a very good one, he reasoned as he crept over to the window to sneak a peek at the street below.

Two figures came into view – the one on the left unmistakably Bucky with his overlarge red scarf and the other a few inches taller and sporting a leather jacket. Steve felt a little creepy watching from the window, so he went to turn away, but then the couple stepped into the lamplight.

Steve’s heart dropped into his stomach.

It was Brock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUUUUUUN
> 
> i know i disappeared for awhile there. I've been working on other projects (some old, some new). i added a couple one-shot chapters to the Post-TWS fic I wrote, if you read that one (or want to read it. it's good, i'm told??) and also another meet-cute AU having to do with FLOWER SHOPS and ALLERGIES. so if that's something you like, check it out.
> 
> my work life has been a fucking nightmare lately, which sucks for me but is good for you readers because it means i've got more time to WRITE. this fic especially, which i know fell by the wayside for awhile. now that THINGS ARE HAPPENING, though, it'll pick up again. hopefully. don't hold me to that.
> 
> AT ANY RATE, thank you as always for reading and commenting. makes my day that much easier to get through since i'm surrounded by fucking assholes. :))


	8. Chapter 8

“Is this weird? This is weird.”

Brock laughed lightly and grinned at the waitress who appeared to fill their wine glasses with something white that Brock had chosen.

“Just don’t slip up and call me ‘Professor Rumlow’ and I think we’ll be okay.”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve just… never been on a date with one of my teachers before.”

Brock pointed at him. “ _Not_ your teacher anymore. And never will be again, hopefully.”

“Talk about awkward.”

Brock shrugged and sipped from his wine glass. Bucky leaned forward with his right elbow on the table. The restaurant wasn’t overly crowded, but there was enough ambient background noise to keep Bucky’s bubbling anxiety at bay.

“Okay, so I gotta ask,” Bucky started.

Brock let out a long breath and sat back, still clutching his wine glass. “Oh boy.”

Bucky smiled a little. “Steve?”

Brock raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“Seriously? You wouldn’t come inside the office. And I know Steve’s got some weird thing against you.” Bucky looked at Brock expectantly.

Finally, Brock sighed. “He hasn’t told you yet?”

“Obviously not.”

Brock looked to be thinking long and hard about something before he finally leaned forward. “Look, I understand you work for him and that’s fine, but I really think if Steve hasn’t talked about it, it’s not really my place to say anything.”

Brock stared at the glass in his hand and Bucky thought he saw something like regret or sorrow cross his face, but then it was gone. He wanted to apologize for even bringing it up. It was clearly inappropriate, especially for a first date. 

But then Brock continued: “It’s just… we have history.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah, I figured it had something to do with school or… I don’t know.”

The right side of Brock lips twitched up. “He really didn’t say, huh?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck and wished he’d left his hair down because he could feel the flush creeping up his chest and into his face. “I sorta… didn’t mention it was _you_ I was going out with.”

“Ah,” Brock said with a nod. “Gotcha.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky said, holding out his hand. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just too nosy for my own good.”

Brock smiled at that and this time it did reach his eyes. Bucky liked that; he had nice eyes. 

They fell back into an easy conversation. Bucky got along with most people, but Brock was a new brand of suave Bucky hadn’t encountered except maybe in his pre-war self. He was humble yet self-assured, polite and yet able to turn just about anything into a raunchy joke when given the chance. For a moment, Bucky wondered if he were staring into a mirror from the past, but then Brock offered to pay for the whole meal – which wasn’t cheap – and the illusion shattered. Bucky never would’ve been able to afford that kind of a hit to his wallet. He refused, but Brock was persistent and practically threatened the waitress when Bucky attempted to hand her his card.

Bucky rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Thank you, again.”

“You’re welcome, again,” Brock said with a smile. “It’s not a big deal, Bucky. I like to pay for my dates. I asked you out, after all. Next time you can choose and maybe I’ll let you pay.”

“So McDonald’s, then?” Bucky quipped.

But Brock just shrugged. “I’d be happy no matter what, so long as you were there.”

Despite the absolute cheesiness of the line, Bucky felt his heart skip a beat. This guy was _good_. Still, something wasn’t quite right. After all, if Brock was capable of upsetting Steve, then he couldn’t be all that amazing, could he?

Then again, Steve got upset about a lot of things and a lot of people. And he was usually justified in his anger, but what if this time he wasn’t? What if this time he’d made a mistake? 

As they walked down the quiet city block back toward the office building, Brock grabbed his hand and Bucky felt the blush hot on his cheeks, grateful for the dark streets and fluorescent lights. They stopped outside of the building. 

“Steve’s not here if you wanna…” Bucky motioned toward the front door.

Brock shook his head. “Sorry,” he said and looked at the sign next to the door that still read “Rogers & Carter.” “Just a lot of memories still connected with this place.”

“Right,” Bucky said awkwardly and took a step back toward the door. He wondered if he could convince Brock to wait for him to grab his bag so they could continue walking together, but Bucky had no idea where he lived or if he even had to take the Subway.

Brock sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. “This isn’t fair,” he said.

“What?” Bucky asked, taken aback.

“I like you.”

“Oh.”

“And I’d like to take you out again.”

“Oh. Yeah, me too.”

Brock smiled. “Good. But I think I should just… clear the air. See, Steve and I used to date.”

Bucky’s heart picked up and he felt the familiar coil of shock and anxiety in his gut. Of all the things he expected could’ve happened between Brock and Steve, _that_ wasn’t one of them.

“Yeah,” Brock said, looking amused at the look of awe on Bucky’s face. Brock scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk and said, “For a year.”

“Oh.”

“And it didn’t end well.”

“Sorry.”

Brock shrugged a shoulder. “Not your fault. Honestly, it was both of us. We were both strong-willed and hard-headed.”

Bucky smiled a little. That sounded exactly like Steve. “What happened?” Bucky asked. Then quickly realized he was being nosy again and shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not my business.”

“Well, I think it is. See, Steve… cheated on me. And since then, I’ve sorta had issues with trust and… God, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped. He’d known Steve barely half a year, and the guy was capable of a lot, but cheating? It went against everything Bucky knew about the guy. But at the end of the day, what _did_ he know about Steve? He still didn’t know how Peggy had died or even what she was like. Steve kept her so close to himself and Bucky thought maybe it was because Steve still wasn’t over her. But maybe it was something else. Maybe there was more to Steve that Bucky didn’t know because besides being his friend, Bucky wasn’t much else. And all the confiding Steve did in Bucky was about superficial things – work and friends and work again, but never feelings beyond the preliminary “how is your anxiety?” because that was something they had in common.

Maybe this was the final puzzle piece that would finally bring the real Steve into focus.

“Promise you won’t tell Steve I told you. He’s a good guy,” Brock said, eyes wide and pleading.

“Yeah, no, of course I won’t say anything,” Bucky agreed quickly. “It’s just… hard to believe, that’s all.”

Brock huffed. “You’re telling me. Try being with the guy for a year, giving him everything, and then finding out… Well, it is what it is.”

“You don’t have to answer this,” Bucky said slowly, “but… was it Peggy?”

Brock bit his lip and shook his head slightly. “No,” he said quietly. “That’d almost make it better, wouldn’t it? If he at least _married_ the person he cheated on me with? God, no. It was just some guy at a bar. Apparently the guy was leaving the country the next day so I couldn’t even get sweet revenge.” Brock smiled at the joke, and Bucky smiled back, but it was cursory and forced.

Because Bucky thought he knew who Brock was talking about.

“How long ago did this happen?” Bucky asked.

Brock sighed. “Three years ago? A little more? Like I said, it’s in the past. Steve obviously moved on and I just wanted all this out in the open. No secrets, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “No secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POOR STEVIE. BROCK IS SUCH AN ASSHAT.
> 
> ((Thank you so much for the comments and kudos. You guys are just AMAZING.))


	9. Chapter 9

Things were a bit blurry around the edges, which meant Steve hadn’t drunk enough yet. He took another long, hard swig from the nearly-empty vodka bottle and grimaced at the taste. The dull pounding in his head was only heightened, though. He groaned and fell sideways on his couch, taking the pillow and pressing it down over his ears.

The pounding followed him there. It was arrhythmic and loud and really making his sad attempt to be drunk that much more difficult. Finally, the pounding stopped and he passed out.

He awoke to a soft, warm pressure on his cheek and the low sounds of a familiar voice. Steve groaned and tried to sink further into the couch to no avail. There was another voice then, higher and unfamiliar. Steve vaguely realized he could be getting robbed right now before falling back asleep.

Once again he was awoken too soon by that soft pressure on his cheek. He pulled away and tried to stamp down the waves of nausea now hitting him in full force. The familiar voice spoke again and this time Steve understood one word: trashcan. He peeled open his eyes and groaned at the assault of light that shot white hot pain into his brain. Directly in front of him was the trashcan from the downstairs bathroom. But even in his drunken stupor, he was ornery enough to physically refuse to vomit. It wasn’t going to happen.

The potentially familiar robber must have sat on the couch in front of Steve’s legs because Steve felt the give of the cushion below him.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed after passing out again, but when he opened his eyes, the living room was dim. His head ached in a way it hadn’t since he was 22 and still had the energy to stay out drinking until 3 in the morning. The nausea had passed, at least for the moment, and he was able to convince himself to sit up.

He was still drunk, so not much time had passed, and a narrow-eyed glance around the room showed that the blinds had been shut, but otherwise it was light outside. Steve dropped his head into his hand. “Shit,” he muttered.

“He lives,” came that familiar voice from behind Steve somewhere in the kitchen. He turned to watch as Bucky came around to join him in the living room.

Steve let out a breath and tried not to think about the fact that the room was currently tilted a few degrees in the wrong direction. “Bucky?”

“How you feelin’?” he asked. He sat on the coffee table across from Steve. 

Steve’s eyes scanned the floor by his feet until he saw the mostly-empty bottle of vodka, miraculously still standing up. He grabbed it and took a swig. Bucky made some sort of choking noise and snatched the bottle from Steve. Steve relinquished the bottle easily and let himself fall back against the couch. The room spun.  


“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky said. Steve closed his eyes and tried to imagine a world where he didn’t have vertigo and feel like shit; it didn’t work.

“Hey, man, what’s going on?” Bucky asked. God, he sounded so _sincere_ , if Steve had the motor control he might have punched him. As it was…

“Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Steve opened his eyes abruptly. “What?” he asked, trying to focus on Bucky. He was a little blurry and it wasn’t just because Steve’s glasses had been abandoned hours ago.

Bucky sighed and immediately Steve felt guilty. But it quickly turned into righteous anger. “Why are you here?” Steve snapped. Except it came out more like “whyeryhere” followed by a groan.

“You didn’t show up for work and Darcy got worried,” Bucky replied. 

Shit. Darcy. In his descent into self-hatred this afternoon (or was it yesterday?), he’d forgotten that Darcy would notice his absence.

“I’m fine,” Steve mumbled.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Bucky replied and Steve could hear the disappointment in his voice. “What’s this about?”

“Nothin’,” Steve said indignantly. He’d cross his arms and pout if he could, but that felt like a lot of effort for too little pay off. 

It was quiet except the rhythmic rushing of blood in Steve’s ears. He tasted alcohol in his mouth and his stomach turned uneasily. “How was your…,” he squeezed his eyes shut and powered through, “ _date_?”

Steve looked up to gauge a reaction, and his vision swam.

“Is that was this is about? Shit, Steve.” Bucky ran a hand through his too-long hair. 

“Nah, I was jus’… wonderin’,” Steve managed.

“Jesus.”

Steve wasn’t upset, really. It wasn’t that Bucky was out with _Brock_. It was every other thing that’d gone wrong in Steve’s life. It was his late wife and his stupid friends and Steve’s shitty personality. It was Darcy’s pestering and Bucky’s blasé attitude and _fucking Brock_ trying to start the whole goddamn cycle over again, trying to weasel into Steve’s life to take away the one good thing he had that wasn’t marred by the loss of Peggy.

Okay, maybe it had a little to do with the date.

“Why don’t we get you into bed.”

Steve nodded slowly and tried to stand up. It took almost all of his strength and two very strong arms to get him up and walking. The stairs were a nightmare, each one swimming before Steve’s eyes until he gave up and climbed them with eyes closed.

Bucky sat him on the edge of the bed where Steve swayed slightly until Bucky returned with the trashcan from the master bathroom.

“You’ll feel better if you vomit,” Bucky said.

Steve shook his head weakly. Big mistake as his stomach roiled. He groaned and laid down in the fetal position instead. A few moments later he heard Bucky walk toward the door.

“Wait,” Steve said and tried to sit up.

“Stay down,” Bucky said, coming back over. “I was just gonna be downstairs. If you need anything, your cell phone’s right there.” He motioned at the nightstand. Something flashed momentarily on the screen before going off again. Next to it was a glass of water. “There’s at least 14 worried voicemails from Sam, by the way.”

“Shit,” Steve mumbled and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Just glad you’re okay. Well, relatively.” Bucky sighed. “Water on the nightstand when you can drink it.” He turned to go again.

“Wait.”

“Need something?” Bucky asked, turning back.

“Can you…” Steve struggled to find the words. Instead he patted the bed next to him.

“Steve, I…”

Steve made some noise between a groan and a scoff. “’Cause of Brock?”

“Not because of Brock, asshole. Because you’re drunk and I…”

Steve shook his head. “Please? I don’t like to be alone.”

That apparently was a pathetic enough excuse to get Bucky to crawl onto the bed. Steve turned over to look at him. “You’re a really weird drunk,” Bucky commented.

Steve shrugged a shoulder and closed his eyes again. The nausea had once again settled and he hoped it held off, although he realized with the sheer amount he'd drunk, it really would be better if he got it over and done with. But conceding had never been his strong suit.

“You gonna tell me why you drank yourself half to death in the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday?”

It took Steve half a minute to register that a question had been asked of him and then another full minute to formulate a precise answer: “Hrrmgh.”

“Fine, you don’t have to answer now, but you will when you’re sober, Steve.”

Steve felt himself drift closer to sleep and he nearly tipped over into unconsciousness when he heard Bucky say something. But he only caught the end, so he asked, “What’d you say?”

“Nothin’. Go to sleep.”

Steve grumbled because that’s what he’d been trying to do, but suddenly this became more important to him than his health. “What is it?” Steve asked, once again forcing himself to open his eyes and stay awake.

Bucky let out a breath. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“’Bout what?” Steve asked.

“Brock. You knew it was him and you didn’t say anything.”

“Why? What’d he say?” Suddenly, Steve felt alert. Or as alert as a bottle of vodka would allow.

Bucky hesitated. “Told me you used to date. For a year. That you had some issues.” Bucky repositioned himself so he was staring down at Steve with his hand holding up his head, elbow on the mattress.

Steve groaned. It was exactly what he’d been dreading would happen on that godforsaken date – that Brock would tell their story and he’d slant it in his favor. Because he’d done it before and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Brock had ruined an otherwise good friendship.

“Told me you cheated on him with some nobody at a bar,” Bucky continued. “Somebody who was leaving the country the next day? Sounded awful familiar.”

Steve closed his eyes tight and wished he could sink straight through the mattress and into the floor, maybe float all the way down to the center of the earth where he could live with the mole people. He was small enough, probably. They’d accept him as one of their own.

“Hey,” Bucky said and Steve jumped at the soft, warm pressure on his forehead. Bucky pulled his hand back and Steve saw that he was… smiling? “You really think I’d believe that asshole?”

Steve took five seconds too long to process what Bucky was trying to say. “Wha?” he finally said.

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Look, I know it was three years ago, but the fact that I can _still_ remember how fuckin’ sad you were at that bar means you were definitely _not_ the heartbreaker in that relationship. Besides, Brock’s nice, but he’s nice in the way that I was nice in, like, high school.”

Steve scrunched up his face in what he hoped was a look of confusion.

“I was an asshole in high school,” Bucky clarified. “Y’know, a real love ‘em and leave ‘em type? Wham, bam, thank you ma’am? A-”

Steve waved his hand in front of Bucky’s face in an effort to stop him and Bucky laughed. “My point is,” Bucky continued after a beat of silence. “You should’ve said something.”

Steve mulled that over. “You wanted me to… chase you down the street? Shout from the window that Brock’s the biggest asshole known to mankind and then some?”

“Okay, maybe not that far, but you could’ve texted me? Or even called the morning after? This is…” Bucky motioned toward Steve who was only just sober enough to blush and feel self-conscious for his drunken state. “A bit drastic, don’t you think?”

Steve scoffed. “I mean, you say that now? But Brock’s a first-rate asshole. He’s real good at being an asshole, I mean. Really good. Shit. I don’t know what I’m saying.” Steve ran a hand down his face and wished for the first time that day that he was just a little bit more sober because this was _important_ and he was completely fucking it up.

“I think we’re friends, right?” Bucky said. “And friends tell their friends when they’ve gone on dates with cheating, lying, scumbag assholes?”

“Jesus,” Steve snapped. “It’s not about being friends. I mean, Brock’s- He’s really- He just- When it happened before-”

“Before?” Bucky cut in. He frowned. “Wait, you’re saying Brock has dated a friend of yours before?” Steve nodded and rubbed his eyes. The headache that was blooming spoke volumes about the hangover he was likely to wake up with tomorrow.

“So this is, like, a thing, isn’t it? He’s really that devious?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied weakly.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, I mean. That’s… Is he a psychopath?”

“I’ve got theories,” Steve said.

“I’m half-tempted to keep dating him just to see if it’s true, but I think I’d fear for my life or something. Jesus. I’m sorry, Steve.”

Steve shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“Guess not, but still.” Bucky sighed and laid his head back down on the disused second pillow on Steve’s bed. “So what happened? Before, I mean. With the other… friend.”

Steve sniffled and drew his pillow closer to him, curled up a little tighter as he thought back. “His name was Pietro. He was an intern and Brock got to him, told him… all sorts of stupid shit. And, I mean, I tried to tell him, y’know? That Brock was a dickwad and… I don’t know. You don’t know him that well, but Brock is… charismatic. Like, super fucking charming. So much so you don’t wanna hear a bad word about him even if it’s coming from your closest friends.” Steve learned that the hard way. An entire year spent denying and parrying every slanderous allegation thrown at him by Steve’s own good friends. And he knew, deep in the heart of him, that they were right. That Brock was a fucking nightmare who used guilt and emotional abuse to get his way.

Hindsight is 20/20, after all.

“What happened to him? To Pietro, I mean,” Bucky asked.

Steve sighed. “Brock cheated on him. Only took a few months. That’s usually how it goes. And Pietro apologized to me for saying… things he didn’t mean. And I knew that. I knew he didn’t mean ‘em, but it was nice to hear. Just wish he’d listened earlier.”

They fell into a comfortable silence and before Steve could stop himself, he reached out and grabbed the hand Bucky had resting between them on the bed. “Thank you,” Steve said quietly, eyes heavy with sleep. “You didn’t have to come check on me.”

“I did, actually,” Bucky said. He didn’t move his hand, which Steve took as a good sign, even if he wasn’t sure what his goal was, here. “Darcy was panicking and she called basically everyone she knows who knows you and when no one had seen you, she asked me to come over and – and I’m quoting here – ‘break down the fucking door if you have to, I will pay the damages.’ Luckily I’ve got a friend who lives nearby who’s got a thing for lockpicking.”

“I thought someone else was in my house,” Steve realized. Then, “You broke into my house.”

“Natasha Romanoff broke into your house. I had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s sad.”

“Sad?”

“Not that. It’s just… I’m now realizing how little I know about you. I didn’t know you had a… friend who can pick locks.”

“It’s not common knowledge,” Bucky admitted. “And it’s… mutual, y’know? I’ve known you for 5 months? And we talk a lot, but we don’t say much.”

Steve chewed on that. It was true; most of their conversations were filled with nonsense and fluff. When things got serious, one of them was quick to change the subject, to keep things light. It was one of the reasons Steve so enjoyed Bucky’s company. He was the least likely of all Steve’s friends to suddenly turn a conversation about politics into a pity party or an examination of post-Peggy feelings.

Steve had never thought that perhaps Bucky would _want_ to talk about things that mattered. Steve imagined Bucky wanted to avoid talking about his service about as much Steve wanted to avoid talking about his wife’s death. 

But maybe, Steve thought, staring down at his hand clasped in Bucky’s, it wouldn’t be so bad if they did.

“She was the most amazing person in the world. And I think about it a lot – the fact that you never got to meet her – because she would’ve loved you.” Steve paused to glance at Bucky. Bucky was watching Steve carefully. “I don’t like to talk about her because it… It doesn’t make me sad, but it makes other people sad for me?” Steve wrinkled his nose and wished his thoughts weren’t so sluggish. “I’d like to… to shout from the rooftops how much I loved her, to point out when stupid shit reminds me of her, but God, I cannot tell you how much I hate those stupid fucking looks of pity people give me. Like at any moment I’m gonna break down and…” Steve swallowed angrily and wiped away the tear on his cheek that was _blowing_ his fucking cover.

Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand. “Preachin’ to the choir, pal.”

Steve sniffed and shook his head. “I know. It’s stupid because you… I feel like I could tell you anything, y’know? You’re the best, Bucky.”

Bucky laughed, but Steve needed him to understand he was _serious_. Steve pulled his hand out of Bucky’s and pushed the other out to grab Bucky on either side of his face. 

“You’re a good friend,” Steve said seriously.

Bucky stopped laughing, but there was mirth in his eyes. Steve sighed and brought his hands back to settle on his own chest. “Can I tell you something?” Steve asked. “And you can’t laugh, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Bucky replied.

“I’m serious,” Steve said, trying his best to frown and look stoic. “I’ve never told… anybody this, okay? So just…”

“I won’t laugh,” Bucky promised.

“I can’t, I mean, not since Peggy, y’know? I’ve not been with anyone? And it’s like I don’t want to, really, y’know? But it’s, like, y’know? I just. Can’t? Even if I did want to? I can’t. Without thinking about her. That can’t be normal, right? She’s… But it’s, y’know.”

“Uh.”

Steve swallowed and tried to find a way to backpedal, but his mind was currently going about half the speed of his mouth.

“Well I can’t get it up at all.”

Steve’s brain came to a grinding halt as the words hit his ears. “Wha?” 

Bucky shrugged and turned a particularly dark shade of pink. “I mean – Jesus, I can’t believe I’m telling you this – I can get to a certain point and then I have… Sam calls ‘em invasive thoughts. Basically the worst shit you can think of. From the war and just. Everyone I know dying?”

“That’ll kill the mood,” Steve said softly.

Bucky laughed loudly and Steve smiled a little. “Yeah, no kidding,” Bucky agreed. “Point is, you’re hardly the most fucked up one in this bed. Or even in our merry group of friends.”

“Sorry,” Steve said.

“Don’t be. If it’s not my fault your wife is dead, then it’s not your fault I went to war, right? So, assuming you even remember this in the morning, how about we just… stop apologizing for shit that isn’t our fault, deal?”

Steve nodded seriously. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long. Have a long chapter to make up for it.
> 
> Just 2 broken kids and their hate for Brock.


	10. Chapter 10

“Okay, be honest with me. Did I get into a fight with a wrecking ball last night?”

Bucky laughed from his seat on Steve’s couch and watched as Steve very slowly made his way down the stairs. Bucky paused the TV and sat back.

“Headache?” Bucky asked innocently.

“No. This is something else entirely. Has anyone’s head actually ever exploded before? Because that’s what this feels like.” Steve sat heavily on the couch next to Bucky and let his head fall back on the cushion. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“I went out and got the greasiest shit I could find,” Bucky said. He got up and went into the kitchen to retrieve the bags. He tossed them next to Steve on the couch before taking a seat again. “If you can eat,” Bucky added.

Steve stared at the bags with a frown. “I’m stuck between ravenous and nauseous.”

“Eat a little bit. Trust me, it helps.”

Steve grew quiet, still staring at the bags. “Um. Did I…?”

Bucky looked over at Steve. He was weirdly attractive when he was hungover. The paleness brought out his eyes and he didn’t have his glasses to hide behind. His hair was disheveled. Bucky had a sudden urge to reach out and flatten it.

“Did we discuss our dicks last night?”

Bucky would’ve choked had he been eating something. Instead, he just coughed and felt himself flush. Steve, for his part, just stared confusedly at the fast food bags.

“Uh,” Bucky said. “Yeah?”

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Bucky said. He’d kind of hoped Steve would have been too drunk. Bucky had told a little bit too much about himself, especially given Steve was effectively his boss.

Steve pushed at his eye with the heel of his palm and frowned. Then, he reached for a bag and pulled out a breakfast sandwich. He unwrapped it, deliberated for a moment, and took a tentative bite. When he didn’t immediately vomit, he took another.

“Thanks for this,” Steve said.

“Don’t mention it.”

While Steve finished the sandwich, Bucky pressed a button on the Xbox remote to continue watching _Blue Planet_. After Steve finished, he wiped his hands on his pants.

“This should go without saying, but you can take today off. God knows I am,” Steve said.

Bucky smiled. “As much as I appreciate it, I already had today off, remember?”

Steve looked confused for a moment, then something clicked. “Stark. I forgot.”

“I should actually leave. Gotta go home and shower, change, all that.”

“He’s just fitting you a new arm, right?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, but with Stark – dressing up is sorta mandatory unless you wanna get chastised for a lack of taste and then forced to take thousands of dollars in store credit to buy new clothes.”

“Sounds like a real nightmare,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes.

“You haven’t met his tailor. That’s eight hours of my life I’ll never get back all to fit a suit I have yet to wear.”

Steve snorted. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“Yeah. I don’t know how long I’ll be? I’ll try to stop into the office if I’ve got time afterwards.”

Steve waved his hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. After yesterday’s disaster? You deserve a week off. Honestly, thank you. I’m… beyond embarrassed.”

True to form, he blushed and Bucky wondered if he were thinking back to their pillow talk moment like Bucky was. “Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said and he stood and went over to collect his jacket from the foyer. He turned back to Steve and added, “Next time, you can use your words to tell me I’m dating an asshole instead of a bottle.”

The deep red that flooded Steve’s face was almost worth the jab. Almost. “I’m just messing with ya, pal,” Bucky added with a grin and Steve rolled his eyes.

“Get out of here,” Steve replied with grimace and Bucky left, still smiling.

  


* * *

  


“Scientific American already sent me the article to proof if you wanna read.”

Bucky watched with bated breath as Tony artfully dabbed at the prosthetic arm attached to Bucky’s left stump with a tiny welding tool. Each time, little sparks flew out and Bucky tried to compare them to sparklers on the fourth of July, not the wires sparking against one another while hot wiring a jeep in the middle of the desert in Afghanistan. So far, it seemed to be working.

“Do I _want_ to read it?” Bucky asked.

Tony shrugged a shoulder, never looking away from his task, which Bucky was grateful for. So far, the prosthetic was just as it had been the night Bucky had worn it at the glorified press conference – unfunctioning. It was a deadweight against his left side, but not uncomfortable given the essentially weightless material it was constructed from.

“Here.” Tony turned abruptly on his stool and rolled over to a table to grab a tablet. He tapped a few buttons on the screen and handed the tablet over to Bucky.

“World’s Most Lifelike Bionic Arm Developed,” Bucky read aloud. “Not very creative.”

“It’s a science magazine, Barnes. Scientists aren’t known for their wily headlines.”

Bucky continued to read:

> _Brought to the world by alternative energy mogul Stark Industries, the innovative “biomechanical” arm is the latest model to come from the renowned technologically innovative company, and it’s their most lifelike model yet. The artificial arm is the result of seven years of research and development, which involved not only the adoption of military technology but methods employed by Formula 1 engineers also. And the team certainly didn’t skimp on materials, either, exploiting rare Earth metals for its patented finger control system and an aluminum alloy used in the construction of aircrafts to keep it lightweight._
> 
> _Three hundred and thirty-seven mechanical parts were used to build it. Despite all of these bits and pieces, the whole thing weighs less than 400 grams (14 ounces), but that doesn’t mean strength is compromised: It can bear the weight of 45 kilograms (99 pounds). Most of the weight of the hand has been distributed around the wrist so that the fingers aren’t unnaturally heavy. Furthermore, the arm boasts a 4,000 psi force rate – only slightly more than your average crocodile._

  
“What am I? The next, better Steve Irwin?” Bucky asked, looking up at Tony.

Tony waved a hand dismissively. “The pressure thing is to catch the eye of military folks.” He leaned back and tapped something into the laptop behind him. “Imagine a world where the best soldiers weren’t taken out of the field because of a lost limb. Where that might actually be a blessing. Guys like you could go right back into the field _and_ pack one hell of a punch.”

Bucky bristled. He’d thought a lot of things about losing his arm. It being a _blessing_ was never one of them. And the idea of going back out there – arm or no – was enough to tighten the anxious grip around his middle.

Tony, as shrewd as he was, must have noticed because he added, “Only soldiers who _want_ to go back in, obviously.” He played it off cool, but Bucky noticed the way his eyes lingered a little too long on Bucky’s face. Bucky glanced down at the tablet and started to read again:

> _So how does it work? The arm features various sensors that pick up the user’s muscle movements and then send this information to individual finger motors and microprocessors that continuously monitor finger and arm position._
> 
> _The innovative arm was showcased a few months ago at a private conference held by Stark Industries figurehead Tony Stark, where it had already been fitted to a user in New York: 29-year-old James Barnes, a veteran and amputee. Before receiving the prosthetic, Barnes had a cosmetic arm that was lifelike but did not move and thus did not endow him with most of the functions of an arm. While difficult to get used to at the start, Barnes said that it has been a major improvement to his life and has enabled him to do things that were previously impossible._

  
“You didn’t tell them the prototype didn’t work?” Bucky asked skeptically.

“It _worked_ ,” Tony hedged. “I just didn’t trust your dumb ass to use it properly. This one is user-friendly.” Tony tapped lightly on the metal arm with a weird metal tool Bucky hadn’t ever seen in all his years working construction and futzing around with cars.

“And it,” Bucky looked back at the article, “‘has been a major improvement to my life’,” he quoted.

Tony glanced up at Bucky. “Would you rather I sent them to you to interview you, ask all those deeply personal questions, like how you lost the arm and how often you cry yourself to sleep at night thinking, _oh, if only I had a super awesome Stark arm!_ ”

“You could at least have consulted me about this,” Bucky said, although he knew Tony was right in the end. An interview would’ve been a nightmare.

“What the hell do you think this is?” Tony asked, motioning toward the tablet in Bucky’s hand. “Consulting!”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Look, if you don’t like it, I can send an e-mail. You don’t like it?”

“I like it fine, Stark,” Bucky replied.

Tony nodded knowingly and went back to tampering with the arm while Bucky finished reading. The rest of the article was a testament to Stark Industries and their work in alternative energy. It went on to praise Stark for his philanthropy and quote other experts in the field of prosthetics about Stark’s selflessness and forward-thinking that will inevitably help amputees – vets especially – all around the world.

Bucky almost vomited a little.

“All right. It should be good to go now. I’m gonna turn it on, so I need you to maybe put down that very expensive tablet and focus on the arm,” Tony said.

“What do you mean ‘should’?” Bucky asked, but placed the tablet on the table next to him.

“Okay, just hold still for a sec,” Tony said and tapped at something in the little open panel on the inside of the upperarm.

All of a sudden, a weirdly warm sensation lit up the entirety of Bucky’s left side. He tensed and tried to focus on his breathing, but it was distracting as a flurry of sensations overtook him – heat, pressure, movement. It was like his arm - _his arm_ was suddenly back.

“Turn it off,” Bucky said suddenly and Tony frowned.

“What-?”

“Turn it off!” Bucky shouted, unable to take his eyes off the arm. It was wrong. Something was wrong. The arm was wrong. The room swam in his vision, blurry around the edges and he tried to control his breathing but couldn’t.

“Stark!” Bucky snapped when Tony sat dumbfounded for too long.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony said and pressed back on the upperarm to reach the panel.

Just that – the slight but firm pressure of Tony’s hand on Bucky’s arm – no, not his arm. _The_ arm – was enough to send Bucky’s heart racing again. Because Tony was _warm_ , fingers slightly calloused and rough against Bucky’s skin – not his skin _not his skin_.

Then, all at once, it was gone. The arm was just a hunk of metal sitting useless against Bucky’s side again.

“All right, buddy?” Tony asked, eyes wide.

Bucky took a few deep breaths until he finally nodded, slowly.

“What happened? Electric shock? I thought I made it so that wouldn’t happen, but-”

Bucky shook his head and swallowed. “No,” he said. “No, it wasn’t… that. It just…” Bucky felt something on his cheek and wiped away the tear, annoyed at his lack of dignity in front of Tony. “It was just a lot to, uh, to take in,” Bucky explained lamely.

Tony seemed to think for a moment and then he went back to the panel. For a half, panicked second Bucky thought he was going to turn it on again, but when the arm didn’t do anything, he relaxed.

“Okay, I think I may know the problem. I had the sense settings up to match what the average person would feel in their arm. I didn’t take into account the fact that you, uh, haven’t had _any_ feeling in awhile. So.” Tony looked at Bucky and smiled slightly. “One more try? And honest to God, if it’s still too much for you, we don’t have to keep going. Although I will be pissed.”

Bucky swallowed. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take in this state, but he was also pretty sure Tony would actually kill him if he didn’t at least _try_. So he clenched his jaw and nodded. “Okay,” he said and it came out much more certain than he felt.

“Okay,” Tony said and went back in.

This time, the sensations were significantly duller. Bucky looked at the arm with a feeling less like revulsion and more curiosity. Okay, this was better. 

Once it was clear he wasn’t going to panic again, Tony asked, “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

Bucky clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I don’t, um.” He watched as the paper-thin plates of the arm seemed to move microscopically before his eyes.

“Those are the pressure plates,” Tony explained. “They act like your muscles would. It’s what gives the arm weight. Everything else is made of the lightest shit I could get my hands on. But the plates move so the weight is distributed evenly given where you’re placing the most pressure, how you’re moving, even depending on the outside temperature.” Tony turned away to type something into the laptop, leaving Bucky alone with the arm.

His arm. Could he get used to that? He stared at the thing and wondered. It looked cold, distant, other. He’d read about people who felt their body parts had been switched or were not their own and Bucky knew suddenly what they meant. The only saving grace was that it _looked_ different. There was no mistaking this thing was a piece of equipment. But the dissociation was severe and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get used to it.

Tony was back. “Any problems?”

Bucky shook his head slightly.

“But better than before, right? I knew it would take time to get used to it.” Tony then held up a hand. He was holding a feather and a pencil. “Just gonna do some pressure tests. Make sure everything is working properly, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky said.

Tony started with the feather, slowly tracing lines down the arm and back up again on all sides. Bucky watched, half-fascinated, half-anxious as the plates moved slightly in one direction or the other when the feather brushed across. Bucky, for his part, couldn’t feel the feather at all. Not, that is, until it reached the hand. Then it was like the slightest tickle, like an ant crawling across his skin – so soft as to be annoying, but not overly so. Bucky told Tony as much who nodded and wrote more on his laptop.

Then he redid the test again with the pencil. This was largely different because Bucky could feel the dull eraser stub against his arm. (His arm. Okay, he could get used to it, he thought.) 

Once that was over, Tony turned back from his notes and said, “All right, everything looks great. Just need to move it now.”

Bucky nodded and looked at the arm dubiously. It should be easy, he thought. Just like moving his old arm. But after months of phantom limb syndrome, he hadn’t attempted to move it in so long he wondered if maybe he’d forgotten how.

But then the fingers started to twitch – his pinky, his forefinger, then the others. 

“Can you make a fist?” Tony asked.

Bucky concentrated on the movement, so foreign feeling and yet weirdly familiar. He made a fist, could feel the hard pressure of the metal fingertips against his palm. He thought he felt the panic well up again, but realized quickly it was something else entirely. Joy. He let out a choked noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh and tried to be embarrassed when the tears came down, but to no avail. Tony be damned, _Bucky had his arm back_. Maybe it wasn’t his old arm, but he could hold things and lift things and help someone up if they fell. He wouldn’t have to worry about what side someone was on, taking too many trips up the stairs to his apartment because he only had one hand to hold grocery bags with.

He could clap.

“That’s really good, man,” Tony said and turned back to the laptop. Ostensibly to take notes, although Bucky knew he was being polite. 

Bucky stared with watery vision as his metal fist closed and opened on command. He wiggled his fingers and practiced closing them one by one. He even held up his middle finger because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done _that_ with his left hand.

“Classy, Barnes,” Tony said.

Bucky laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [one eternity later]
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com). Which has constantly been changing URLs (although if you go to castiowl.tumblr.com, it'll automatically send you to my new URL. or it SHOULD, at any rate.) 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading, kudo-ing, and commenting. God, you guys are the REALEST.
> 
> Almost forgot to add that the science article is KIND OF REAL. It's a bionic arm and it is less functional than Bucky's, but STILL REALLY COOL. I in no small part basically stole the article sO [READ IT IT IS REALLY COOL](http://www.iflscience.com/technology/worlds-most-lifelike-bionic-hand-developed).


	11. Chapter 11

“I come bearing gifts!”

There was a cacophonous cheer from around the large table. Hands reached out to grab the proffered beer bottles enthusiastically – and a little drunkenly.

Steve looked around the crowded bar with a strange mix of nostalgia and enjoyment. It was Christmas Eve and Christmas had always been Peggy’s favorite holiday. Needless to say, the loud bar filled with basically every person Steve knew was a welcome reprieve from the pit of loathing and despair he’d otherwise be wallowing in.

“This had better not be my only present,” Sam chided, motioning his beer toward Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m a starving artist, Sam.”

Sam let out a loud laugh and opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Tony who quickly inserted himself between Sam and Steve.

“Rogers,” Tony said seriously and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say Tony was still sober by the way he hardly seemed to wobble. But Steve knew better.

“Hey, Tony. Thanks for coming.”

Tony nodded slowly as if really considering Steve’s throw-away thanks. “Yeah, listen. You gotta,” he cleared his throat and glanced behind him suspiciously, “you gotta buy me a drink, man.”

“Yeah, I bought a round for everyone,” Steve started, indicating the table of half-drunk beers.

Tony’s mouth curled down in disgust as he looked at the bottles. “Jesus, no. What the… No. A real drink, Rogers. Before-”

“Tony!”

Pepper’s voice, while not quite a shout, was still commanding. Tony visibly deflated before turning around and brightening considerably.

“Honey!” he exclaimed.

Pepper was smiling, but her eyes were slitted and angry. “Hi, Steve.”

“Pepper,” Steve said. “Didn’t think you could make it.”

“Is _that_ what Tony told you?”

Tony shrank back until he disappeared among the forty or so people milling about the over-crowded bar.

“I’m so sorry about him,” Pepper said.

Sam had disappeared somewhere, too, probably over where Thor and Jane had commandeered an actual booth farther in the bar away from the majority of the crowd. 

“Not at all,” Steve said. “He was invited. I just didn’t think he’d actually show up.”

“Yeah, well, he’ll take any excuse to drink now,” she said, looking after his retreating figure fondly.

Steve shifted uncomfortably. Tony drank a lot, and granted, Steve didn’t know him that well, but he’d never thought Tony was an alcoholic.

“It’s this new medicine he’s on,” Pepper continued, as if sensing Steve’s confusion. “Not supposed to drink.”

“Oh,” Steve said. If anything, she’d just confused him more. Was Tony sick?

“He hasn’t told you, has he?” Pepper realized quietly, almost too quiet to hear in the din of the room.

“Sorry, no,” Steve said awkwardly.

Some expression flashed across Pepper’s face for an instant before it was gone, replaced once again with polite contentedness. 

“I should really get him home,” she said and Steve nodded as she turned and left. 

Before Steve could worry himself into a hole, he felt a hand clap him lightly on the back. “Great party, Stevie!”

Steve felt himself redden at the nickname. Luckily, Bucky was too busy taking a swig from his bottle to notice. “Yeah, thanks,” Steve said and he must have looked a little less than enthusiastic, because Bucky laughed.

He squeezed Steve’s shoulder with his right hand and motioned his beer around the bar with his left. “This is great!” Bucky insisted. “And there’s someone I want you to meet.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “She should be here, but she’s one of those fashionably-late types, y’know?”

Steve nodded and smiled. It had been nearly three months since Bucky got his new arm and it still jarred Steve when he saw it. He’d probably never get over how _real_ it looked – at least, underneath clothes. Bucky almost always had it covered by a glove and a long-sleeve shirt. Steve had seen the actual arm briefly when Bucky had first gotten it, but apparently it was hyper-sensitive, so Bucky kept it hidden.

Steve also suspected Bucky felt embarrassed of it, but that was a whole other can of worms Steve wasn’t quite ready to open.

“Ah shit,” Bucky said, snapping Steve out of his reverie. “She brought Clint.” Steve followed Bucky’s eyes and landed on a couple standing near the entrance of the bar. The woman was a well-dressed redhead with impeccable makeup – and gorgeous; Steve could tell from twenty feet away and he certainly wasn’t the only one who had turned to look. 

Her companion stood in stark contrast – ratty jeans, a t-shirt (despite the frigid winter temps outside) and just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. He also looked slightly hungover which probably accounted for his break for the bar as soon as the woman caught sight of Bucky and Steve.

As she reached them, she dazzled Steve with a smile. 

“James!” she greeted cheerily and leaned forward to kiss him on either cheek. 

“Nat, this is Steve.”

She held out a hand and Steve took it with a smile. “Hey, nice to meet you,” Steve said.

“We’ve actually met,” she said. Her smile went from polite to shit-eating in record time and Steve felt himself growing embarrassed without actually knowing why yet. “You may have a been a little, uh, inebriated to remember.”

Oh.

Nat. As in Natasha. As in the woman who had broken into Steve’s house when he’d made a fool of himself and gotten drunk in the middle of the day.

“But it’s good to meet you while you’re standing,” Natasha added.

Steve cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “Sorry about that. Not my finest moment.”

“Nat’s being rude,” Bucky said pointedly, leveling a glare at her. She turned her grin on Bucky who scowled. “How’d you get Clint to come, anyway?” Bucky asked.

“There’s alcohol. Also promised I’d lift the coffee ban if he came and stayed for at least an hour.”

“Coffee ban?” Steve asked, intrigued.

“He’s an awful sleeper,” Natasha explained. “Then he drinks coffee at 3 am and wonders why. It’s a wonder he’s even alive.”

“Is that any way to talk about the guy who just bought you a drink?” Clint slid up next to her and held out some pink-tinted martini glass.

Natasha tsked but took the offered drink. 

“Hey Steve,” Clint greeted.

Steve raised his hand slightly. He’d met Clint two or three times before briefly when he’d come over to beg Bucky off of work for lunch. All Steve knew was that they’d fought together in the war – possibly in the same unit – and neither one of them talked about it.

“Is it true flyboy is here?” Clint asked, looking around the room.

Bucky motioned toward the back of the bar. “He’s playing darts with some chick Stark brought. Maria?”

“Darts?” Clint asked. He took a swig from his beer and disappeared into the crowd.

Natasha leaned forward on the table and gave Steve what was probably supposed to be an innocent look, but came off vaguely threatening. “So, Steve. Tell me – how’s James doing?”

“Nat,” Bucky huffed, clearly annoyed.

She held up a hand and gave him a reproachful look. “I’m having a conversation here, Barnes.” She turned attention back to Steve.

Steve hesitated. “Like… as an employee?”

Natasha shrugged. “Employee, person, friend, _lover_.” She waggled her eyebrows and Steve blushed deeply.

“Oh holy shit,” she said, leaning back abruptly. “I was just kidding, but…” She looked between Bucky and Steve quickly a few times. “You really-?”

“Natasha,” Bucky snapped and his tone was harsh, clipped. Then, he said something in a different language.

Natasha’s surprised smile quickly became a frown and she muttered something back in the foreign language before excusing herself from the table.

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said.

“It’s not. She doesn’t know. I didn’t tell her. That’s just sort of her thing – telling when people are lying, reading facial expressions. It’s fucking annoying now, but overseas it got the job done.”

“Wait, she fought in the war, too?”

“Yeah, she was Clint’s and my CO,” Bucky said, brow slightly furrowed as if this was something they’d talked about all the time. Like Bucky didn’t constantly skirt around any and all talk about his time overseas. Not that Steve blamed him, exactly, he just thought after all this time he’d feel comfortable opening up.

“I’ll talk to her,” Bucky said. “She’s great, just abrasive sometimes.”

“No, it’s fine.” Bucky looked unconvinced. “Really, Buck,” Steve said and smiled. Finally, Bucky smiled back.

The night passed quickly. Steve didn’t drink much – he was technically the host and ever since he woke up those few months ago with the worst hangover of his life, getting drunk seemed a lot less fun. That didn’t stop his friends. 

A few seconds before 12 in the morning, Darcy extracted herself from the hour-long makeout session with Ian to start screaming a countdown from 30. The rest of the bar joined in, apparently uninhibited by the fact that it was Christmas, not New Year’s. By the time they got to 10, the whole bar was shouting – or slurring, as it were. There was a scramble in the last five seconds where empty-handed people tried to find un-empty bottles of beer to toast and then– 

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Steve shouted along with the rest of them and took a sip from the beer he’d been nursing for the past two hours. Suddenly, though not inexplicably, he was surrounded by kissing couples. Thor and Jane still snuggled close in the booth, Darcy and Ian going for a national breath-holding record on the other side, Natasha and Clint were at least modest and, frankly, cute. Even Sam was standing exceptionally close to Maria, status unknown. And Steve was alone. Peggy’s absence was visceral, burning in his chest and making his eyes water.

“Hey, Merry Christmas.” 

Steve turned to find Bucky looking tired but happy, a warm smile touching his bright eyes and for one, blinding moment Steve thought he might kiss him. It would be so easy to lean forward and press his mouth against Bucky’s, taste the cheap beer on his breath and for one moment not feel so damn lonely.

But then Bucky was talking: “How long you staying tonight?”

Steve swallowed and forced a smile. “Getting tired, old man?”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, if you must know. I’ll stay a little longer, though.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was getting really uncomfortable over there with Darcy and her boyfriend. Or is he her oxygen tank? It is actually hard to tell at this point.”

“God, I know. Looks like everyone…” Steve trailed off, not wanting to sound pathetically single by insulting all of his coupled friends.

Bucky seemed to catch his drift. “Who needs ‘em?” he said cheerily, swinging his arm around Steve’s shoulder. It was the left one and the feel of hard metal where there should be something soft and warm was weird, but not unpleasant. 

Steve huffed a laugh. “Spinsters for life?”

“Yeah, that’s the spirit!” Bucky said with a laugh. He pulled Steve close to him and ruffled his hair. Steve laughed and pushed him away playfully before smoothing down his hair.

It was so easy, like they’d been doing this for years. The camaraderie never felt forced, always genuine and if Steve ever – and it was the biggest “if” in the universe – made a move, it could all go disastrously down the drain. He couldn’t lose his best friend over something so stupid as a crush, if that’s even what this was. Maybe it was more infatuation than that, or a desire for physical contact from someone who cared. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. It could change everything, and Steve wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

Around one in the morning, people finally started leaving and Steve was grateful. He knew technically he didn’t have to stay, but he felt responsible for making sure everyone left with some semblance of how they were getting home, which included calling cabs for quite a few of them.

By two o’clock, everyone was gone except a few loners at the bar, Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Maria. Maria, who Steve only knew by name until tonight as the head of HR for Stark Industries, was talking enthusiastically to Sam about something while Sam stared (drunkenly, lovingly? It was hard to tell) at her.

Bucky exchanged weary looks with Steve before subtly ushering them toward the door.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Steve told Bucky as he slipped on his jacket, preparing for the bitter cold weather. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it had been getting into the single digits at night lately.

Bucky shrugged and handed Steve his scarf from the coat rack. Steve bundled up and they headed out. 

The bar was only a few blocks from Steve’s place and not on a busy enough street to warrant waiting for a cab, so they started walking. “You can take a cab to the Subway if you want. I probably won’t get mugged tonight. Too cold.”

Bucky gave Steve a withering look that proved that that’s exactly what he was worried about. “I don’t mind,” Bucky said.

Steve tried to feel flattered by Bucky’s overprotective nature, but acting defenseless had never been his strong suit. He stopped walking, his already freezing feet protesting at the lack of movement.

“Aw, c’mon, Steve, don’t do this,” Bucky pleaded desperately, turning to face him. His arms were crossed across his chest tightly, his shoulders hunched toward his pink ears. 

God, it was cold out. But it was the principle of the thing, even if they did have this argument at least once a month.

“I don’t need anyone to protect me,” Steve said.

“Jesus, I know that,” Bucky said. “Can we just keep walking before I freeze to this spot?”

Steve scowled, but obliged, stomping more than walking down the sidewalk again.

“Look, if you really want me to leave you to walk alone in the fucking arctic at night on _Christmas_ , then I will,” Bucky said. “But if you die, I’m out of a job.”

Steve couldn’t help but snort a laugh. “Always about the money with you,” he joked.

“You know it. I’m actually planning on murdering you and taking over the business.”

“What makes you think I’d leave the business to you?”

“Well, obviously there’s a fake will involved.”

“Obviously. How does Darcy fit into all this?”

Bucky thought a moment. “Accomplice. Although she’d be so distraught over your untimely demise that-”

All at once, a few things happened. A bright orange sports car turned the corner and raced past them down the street, backfiring as it picked up speed. Steve was pushed backward off the sidewalk and slammed hard into the brick wall of a building, the wind knocked out of him. There was a hard pressure against his throat that he realized with a start was Bucky’s prosthetic hand holding him against the hard surface.

He’d smacked his head hard against the brick and he could feel his own heartbeat on his scalp, but more frightening than a possible concussion was the look in Bucky’s eyes, almost black in the fluorescent light from the streetlamp. Steve would rather have seen anxiety, fear, even anger rather than the dead, empty expression Bucky was giving him now. 

Steve tried to even out his breathing, but Bucky was pushing on his windpipe which only made him panic more. 

“Bucky,” he gasped out. Steve managed to get his hand underneath the few layers of clothes around Bucky’s arm and was touching the sheer metal. It was surprisingly warm and the metal plates slid slowly beneath Steve’s scrambling fingers.

It felt like ages passed, Steve barely conscious, imploring Bucky with his eyes to _please let go please it’s okay please_ and Bucky looking apathetic, empty.

Steve could barely see, his vision blurry and blackening by the second, when he finally dropped to the pavement. He took in a desperate, shaky, and bitingly cold breath. He could hear something as his senses came back online. He forced himself up so he was kneeling and looked over at the huddled form against the wall. Everything was blurry and Steve realized he’d lost his glasses at some point. 

He pushed to his feet and shakily went over to Bucky. He kneeled down again next to him and pressed his hand lightly against Bucky’s right shoulder. Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and searching.

“Oh god no no please no don’t I can’t please.” Bucky let out a slew of soft, pleading words, never focusing on one spot for more than a moment. His whole body shook and when Steve moved his hand slightly on Bucky’s shoulder, he curled even farther into himself, knees pressed tight against his chest.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said. His voice was hoarse but he cleared his throat and continued. “Hey, it’s okay. Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

It took some time, but finally Bucky’s manic eyes landed on Steve’s and stayed there. Something like recognition flickered in his eyes. Steve smiled. “Hey, Bucky. It’s Steve. You know me, yeah?”

Bucky’s eyes darted away, then back again. It took a full minute for him to nod minutely, but it seemed to help. Slowly, the muscles under Steve’s hand loosened, but the shaking got worse. Coming down from the adrenaline rush, Steve realized, as he could recognize it in himself, in the way his own hands shook.

“Hey, you’re okay. Gonna take you to my place, okay? You can stay there.” 

Bucky tensed again.

“It’s safe,” Steve said, keeping his voice low and even. “You’re safe.” He moved his hand to Bucky’s face, pushed his hair away from his face. Bucky closed his eyes briefly at the touch. 

Steve let out a shaky breath. “I’m gonna keep you safe, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas in July!
> 
> I don't mean to be so bad at updating. Sorry about that. I was on vacation for a week and also I'm super lazy.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky woke up sore. And not just “I walked back and forth across campus too many times” sore, but a full-body, aching soreness that almost stung. The pain was mostly focused in his shoulders. This wasn’t unusual since the addition of the new arm, as light as it was, was still slightly heavier than his flesh-and-blood arm and could occasionally cause discomfort if he unwittingly used it all day.

This was different, though, and he recognized for what it was almost immediately; it was the pain you felt after a heavy bout of adrenaline when all of your muscles tense up so hard and fast in order to react quicker. In the war, it had been a reminder that his body had once again kept him alive for another day.

But here, it was disconcerting.

Especially since Bucky wasn’t exactly sure where “here” was. He forced himself to roll over onto his back and sit up on the small daybed he was laying on. The room wasn’t familiar, but one glance around and he knew almost exactly where he was – Steve’s house. Specifically, Steve’s office which Bucky had never been inside but had casually been pointed at during Steve’s first tour of the house. The door had been kept shut every time Bucky was over and he was beginning to understand why.

It seemed to be the only room in the house with photographs – photographs of Peggy and Steve, actually, although there really were no photographs at all in the rest of the house, sentimental or otherwise.

Bucky pushed himself off the bed and wandered over to the large corner desk where an old Mac desktop computer was turned off. Papers and folders and assorted office supplies littered the desk in a way that was decidedly un-Steve-like; Steve’s desk at the office was disgustingly organized and clean. Bucky was struck with the thought that perhaps this had never been Steve’s office, but Peggy’s. The daybed’s mint green sheets and matching comforter certainly pointed to a taste more classically feminine. 

Bucky instantly felt guilty for invading this sacred, private space, but since he couldn’t precisely recall how he’d gotten there in the first place, he figured he couldn’t really be blamed.

On the wall over the computer, a tasteful collage showed a younger and happier Steve glued to the hip of a stunning woman with dark hair and bright eyes: Peggy. Putting a face to a name was jarring and Bucky realized when he’d been picturing her, he always sort of imagined Steve, but taller and a woman. He couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

The photos revealed a life well-traveled: Paris, Rome, somewhere tropical, the Grand Canyon. There were similar collages and stand-alone photos all over the walls of the room. Even though she was a graphic designer, Peggy didn’t seem to know exactly what she was going for with the setup – further proved by the stack of four or five frames leaning against the wall beside the printer.

Bucky was suddenly struck with the urge to meet Peggy. He could imagine himself talking to her about Steve, about his inability to take a breath and enjoy the moment, to wind down and not take everything so seriously all the time because, despite his strong belief, not every battle had to be fought, and they certainly didn’t have to be fought by him.

But as Bucky stared at a photo of the couple, with Steve laughing so hard his face was red and Peggy making a horrendous face at the camera as though she’d eaten something rotten, he realized maybe Steve had been carefree before; it had been with her.

The office-slash-guest bedroom was just off the living room and when Bucky stepped out, it was empty. The clock over the TV showed it was almost six in the morning. Maybe Steve was still asleep. Bucky weighed the decision to sneak out, but then he heard something from the kitchen. He made his way around the corner, an apology on his lips, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Steve was turned halfway toward Bucky in sleep pants and a plain, white t-shirt. He was shuffling through mail, his face curiously close to the papers, which Bucky realized must be because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

Even from the awkward angle, Bucky could see the deep-red bruising on Steve’s neck and it all came flooding back. Bucky had freaked out. He’d freaked out and hurt Steve. He’d almost _killed_ Steve. 

He must have made some noise because Steve’s head shot up and suddenly the bruises were clearer than ever. Bucky had never really wanted to kill himself, not really, but at that moment he wanted to die. He was absolutely disgusted with himself, with his role in the injury on Steve’s neck, with his inability to act like a normal fucking human for once in his life.

Steve’s pale hand flitted to the damaged skin as he said, “It looks worse than it is.” He laughed awkwardly and Bucky felt his stomach roll. Bile threatened to burn his throat and he swallowed. He realized suddenly what he had to do. He turned away and went to the front door. He slipped on his boots, which, with another embarrassing realization, must have been taken off him when Steve had brought him over. He grabbed his coat and was just pulling on the sleeve when he felt a hard tug on his metal arm.

He flinched back, pushing his back against the door. Apparently Steve had been talking, but the ringing in Bucky’s ears was too loud.

“Hey, I said, where are you going?” Steve snapped, more demanding than angry.

“Don’t let me-,” Bucky started, then stopped. _Don’t let me touch you,_ he was going to say. _Don’t let me hurt you again._

“Jesus, Buck, will you just _listen?_ ” And now Steve was angry. His jaw twitched and he clenched his fists at his side. “This wasn’t your fault!”

Bucky wished he could melt through the door, disappear into the ether and never be seen again. Because the only thing worse than knowing he hurt Steve, knowing he could have seriously injured him or, god, _killed him_ , is knowing he was already forgiven.

Bucky willed himself to straighten up and steel his expression into something less pathetic. He put his hand on the door handle and said, “I have to go.”

Steve put his hands on his hips and scowled. “Where?”

Keeping eye contact with Steve in this state was near impossible, but Bucky did it anyway, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment and guilt. “I have to talk to Tony. I have to-”

“You can’t,” Steve cut in.

Bucky felt the anger rise in him like fire, completely at odds with the guilt that had been there moments before. 

“Like hell I can’t!” Bucky snapped. “Do you have any idea what I could’ve-?”

“But you didn’t!”

“That’s not the point! Steve, I could’ve _killed you_! I could’ve-”

“ _But. You. Didn’t,_ ” Steve insisted.

Bucky let out a low growl and turned to leave. As he went to pull open the door, he was roughly pushed to the side, back up against the door. Bucky’s breath caught as Steve pushed in close, a finger jabbed at his sternum. 

“Bucky, this wasn’t your fucking fault. Now I’m willing to pretend it never happened, but I swear to god, I _will_ get Sam involved if I have to.”

Bucky huffed angrily. “You don’t get it,” he said. “It’s not just what I did to you.”

Steve’s jaw tensed and he backed off a step. “Then explain it to me.”

Bucky took a few short breaths, trying not to focus on his proximity to Steve or how blue his eyes looked without his glasses on. Bucky was angry and he had every right to be. “I don’t fucking… _deserve_ this.” He motioned vaguely to the metal arm.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This fucking,” Bucky grabbed his left arm with his right, “death trap. I don’t deserve it. I don’t _need_ it. It’s… not meant for me. The only reason I have it is because Tony found me looking pathetic as hell in a VA hospital and took pity on me. There are guys who need this shit, who didn’t get sent a goddamn millionaire angel to build them a fucking cyborg arm like I did. I don’t need... I don’t…” Bucky slumped forward and wiped angrily at the tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Are you done?” Bucky scowled at Steve, but Steve stood his ground, arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Good. You’re a fucking idiot, Barnes.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, more surprised than upset, but Steve cut him off: “You are! You’re a fucking idiot if you don’t think you deserve that arm. You went through hell and the least this fucked up country could do was give you your arm back. And the whole fucking point of this shit is that you’re helping other people. Tony picked you because he knew you’d agree to be his guinea pig before mass-producing them, right? So you’re really getting the short end of the stick, if you think about it.”

“Besides,” Steve continued, “have you ever tried giving Tony back something? Well, I have. It’s impossible. He won’t do it. He will literally leave the country instead of confronting you.” 

Bucky let out a long breath as he digested what Steve was telling him. It was true that the arm was part of a larger plan to bring functional prosthetics to the rest of the world, that Bucky was an essential part to the testing process, but something still felt wrong. Bucky didn’t feel qualified for that position. Certainly not now when he’d used the arm to hurt someone. 

Steve seemed to read his train of thought. “You should talk to Tony about changing the strength, maybe. He told me about the crazy amount of pressure behind the arm. I would just like to point out, by the way, that you could have squashed me like a bug _and you didn’t_ , but you seem intent on hating yourself no matter what.” 

Steve smirked and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Bucky agreed. He sighed and pushed his hair back from where it had fallen into his eyes. “But I still need to talk to Tony.”

“That’s gonna be hard to do,” Steve said.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s in Bermuda, remember? It’s Christmas.”

“Oh.”

Christmas. It was easy to see how Bucky could have forgotten. Truth be told, he hadn’t celebrated a real Christmas in quite a few years now. It didn’t look like this year was going to be any different.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Bucky said. “I should go home. Leave you…” He hesitated because he knew Steve was alone on Christmas. He’d even considered asking if wanted to get together for Chinese, but that had been last night and things went a little differently than planned. 

“Or…,” Steve said with a slight smile.

“Or?” Bucky repeated.

“Stay here. We can order in. Unless you have plans with Clint or Natasha.”

“They’re headed to Jersey to visit Clint’s brother,” Bucky admitted.

“Then you’re more than welcome here,” Steve said and Bucky saw it for what it was: a command more than an invitation, like Steve was trying to prove that what happened last night _really, really_ didn’t affect how he felt about Bucky or their friendship.

“Okay,” Bucky agreed hesitantly.

Steve beamed at him and it was almost worth the growing anxiety in Bucky’s gut that at any moment he could snap again and hurt him.

  


* * *

  


Bucky was in love with Steve.

He just wished it was as easy to say as it was to think it. And it wasn’t how Steve had dealt with Bucky’s episode the previous night, although that certainly solidified his appreciation for Steve as a person.

No, Bucky had been in love with Steve for awhile now. It was hard to say how long exactly. It’s not like he’d woken up one morning and realized it, lightbulb over his head and everything. It was gradual.

Putting a name to that warm, happy feeling he had around Steve was sort of a surprise. It was one of a number of Sam’s mental exercises: sifting through feelings, naming them, and actively deciding why these feelings were there. It helped keep Bucky somewhat emotionally stable.

One particularly late night at the office, Steve got up to leave, stretched his arms way above his head and revealed barely an inch of midriff. It had kickstarted Bucky’s heart to about a mile a minute. It wasn’t surprising, exactly. He and Steve had clicked in that bar those few years ago _because_ they had such good chemistry. No, what surprised Bucky was the accompanying desire to _take him out_ and _treat him right_ , which he was pretty sure his brain was supplying via gangster love stories and _West Side Story_.

It was ridiculous and so Bucky stayed at the office almost two hours after Steve had left in order to “put a name to his feelings”, just like Sam had taught him. And he could only come up with one that fit the bill: love.

Which was just great, really, because neither of them were in any position to be together. As demonstrated last night, Bucky was far from domesticated, and Steve was still dealing with the death of his wife. 

So it was fine. Bucky would pine from afar. He was good at it.

He was less good at it with three glasses of wine and probably twenty pounds worth of General Tsao’s chicken in his system, curled up next to Steve on his too-soft couch watching some sappy Christmas movie Steve had claimed was the “end-all, be-all of Christmas movies” starring Jack Black in a relatively serious, romantic role.

Bucky had laughed out loud because Steve was clearly joking except, no, he hadn’t been joking at all, Jack Black was actually half of the leading male love interests in this story (the other half being Jude Law who looked disgustingly good in glasses, which may or may not be a newfound kink of Bucky’s). 

It was dark outside by the time they finished _Nightmare Before Christmas_ and Bucky had lost count of how many movies they’d actually watched that day. They’d both fallen asleep around 3 in the afternoon and woken up a few hours later so they could open a new bottle of wine and warm up leftovers for dinner.

It had been by far the best Christmas Bucky had ever had. 

Steve disappeared to the bathroom as the credits rolled and Bucky sipped from his wine glass. When he reappeared, he was clutching a perfectly wrapped box.

Bucky sat up, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Please don’t tell me that’s mine,” Bucky said.

Steve grinned and sat next to him, turning in to face Bucky. “I won’t,” Steve said and handed to Bucky.

Bucky took it sheepishly. “You really didn’t have to, Steve.”

“I know.”

“Your present’s at my house. We could wait-”

“I don’t wanna wait. I want you to open it now,” Steve said eagerly.

Bucky stared down at the sizeable package and its perfectly wrapped exterior. “Fine,” he said with huff. He tore the paper down the middle and turned over two hardcover books. The top was _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , one of Bucky’s favorites. Bucky owned probably four copies in varying conditions, so he wondered why Steve would buy him another, especially since this one clearly wasn’t new.

Then, he opened the front cover. He shouted and threw the books at Steve. Steve burst into laughter as Bucky stared in horror at the half-wrapped books.

“What, you don’t like ‘em?” Steve gasped out between laughs.

“They’re…,” Bucky tried to say something clever, but his brain was short-circuiting. He finally calmed down enough to grab the books from Steve’s lap and stare at the front page again.

There it was. As innocuous as anything – Kurt Vonnegut’s signature. Bucky whimpered, which elicited another bout of laughter from Steve. The second book was _Cat’s Cradle_ , also a signed copy and, upon further inspection, a first edition.

“Steve, this is…” Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off the books. The idea of traveling with them down the street was actually horrifying at this point. He couldn’t take the Subway with these. Maybe he could justify taking a cab all the way to Queens. 

“You’re welcome,” Steve said.

“This is too much. Steve, these are worth… Do you know how much this is worth?”

Steve shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just found ‘em in that old used bookstore by the office. Couple hundred bucks?”

“Try _thousands_ ,” Bucky said. He couldn’t seem to close his jaw and before he could think better of it, he flung himself across the couch to crush Steve in a hug. He realized he must smell like the previous night’s booze and that day’s Chinese food but he couldn’t be bothered to care, especially since he could feel Steve’s hum of amusement in his own chest.

After they broke off the hug, Bucky grabbed Steve’s face with both hands. Steve made a face and grew red under Bucky’s stare. 

“You know I’m going to have to return your present, now,” Bucky said, serious and wide-eyed.

“Don’t you dare!” Steve said and struggled to keep a straight face. He once again devolved into laughter and Bucky let his hands drop to his sides. 

“I’m serious, Steve. This is… I’m gonna have to buy you, like, a diamond ring or something. I don’t know. This is just…”

“You deserve it,” Steve said sincerely.

Bucky stared back at Steve. They were so close, their knees touching. He could do it now, lean forward and kiss him. And maybe Steve would pull back or not let him near in the first place and that would be okay, so long as he knew. He didn’t miss Steve’s eyes flicking down to Bucky’s mouth for a heartbeat, though. The way his pupil’s dilated slightly. So maybe Steve wouldn’t pull away. Maybe Steve wanted this, too.

Or maybe Bucky had drunk one glass too many.

Steve’s phone rang loudly, making Steve jump. He let out a breathy laugh as he reached for his phone on the table.

Bucky swallowed and busied himself paging through the novels while Steve answered, trying and failing to get his heartbeat – and emotions – back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tWO CHAPTERS ?/??? IN THE SAME/??? WEEK????????///??
> 
> amazing
> 
> (this is probably not a pattern)
> 
> ((enjoy kind of happy bucky/steve feels))
> 
> (((i didn't have time to read over this; i'll do that tonight. i apologize for any errors.)))
> 
> The movie with Jack Black and Jude Law (and Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz) is "The Holiday" and it IS the end-all, be-all of feel-good Christmas movies. Watch it. Jude Law in glasses. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 13

They’d technically come here for dinner, but the giant bar that ringed the inside of the restaurant had drawn quite a crowd. 

After all, it was New Year’s.

Steve didn’t mind the crowd so much after his fourth (or was he on his fifth now?) drink. He even started to feel a sense of deep camaraderie with the loud, constant buzz of the crowd, eager already for midnight still an hour away.

Sam slid back into the booth, effectively pushing Bucky right up against Steve’s right side, probably on purpose. He was too tipsy to give Sam an effective stink-eye, so he grabbed his beer instead and frowned slightly.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice how close they were or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, his attention was rapt on Clint, seated in front of them with Natasha by his side, as he tried to describe his current dispute with the landlords.

“Like, these big beefy guys. I swear to god, man, they all look exactly the same, but there has to be, like,” he paused and shot Natasha a look.

“30?” she offered with a slight shrug. She was shockingly sober, which couldn’t be guessed just by looking at her, her back pressed against the wall and her bare feet stuck under Clint’s thigh on the booth seat. 

“Yeah, like, 30 of these guys. And I guess they’re, like, Russian or whatever? I don’t know, man, they say ‘bro’ a lot?”

“Bro?” Sam repeated and guffawed. 

Clint nodded grimly. This was clearly no laughing matter to him. 

“Wait, are these the guys you stole Lucky from?” Bucky asked.

Steve angled himself slightly toward Bucky and watched his face, eyes wide and raptly attentive. His hair was pulled away from his face and his scarf had been discarded early in the evening leaving Steve a clear view of his neck. Bucky had a really nice neck. And he’d been staring way too long.

Steve immediately turned his attention back on Clint, but he caught Natasha’s eye instead. She was watching him with what Steve would swear was an actual, bona fide gleam in her eye. The cat that caught the canary. Her lips pulled back in what was probably supposed to be a smile and looked more like a threat. Steve slumped in his seat, half guilty and half terrified Natasha might open her mouth and say something. 

Steve didn’t know Natasha very well. This was only the fourth time he’d seen her in person and each time he never got much out of her. She was friendly enough and laughed easily, but it was impossible to tell what exactly was going on behind those innocent little smiles. 

Bucky called them her “know-it-all smiles” because she made you think she knew something you didn’t or something you didn’t want her to know. Bucky assured Steve that it was almost always bullshit; she just did it to make people uncomfortable, but this time he was pretty sure Natasha had his number.

“What’s _he_ doing here?”

Bucky’s voice snapped Steve from his lackluster staring contest with Natasha. His eyes followed Bucky’s line of vision until he landed on-

“Jesus,” Steve muttered.

“Of all the bars,” Bucky said and took a swig from his beer, finishing it off. 

“Who is that?” Clint asked. 

“Brock,” Bucky replied before Steve could stop him.

“Even I wanna take a swing at the guy and I don’t even know what he’s done or what he looks like,” Clint said, turning around to stare conspicuously at the crowd by the bar.

Brock blended in pretty well and was far enough away that he’d only see them if he were looking. He was joined by three other guys, none of whom looked familiar to Steve, but who were equally muscular.

“Steve’s ex,” Natasha answered in a bored, clipped voice. “Bucky went on a date with him before he found out he was a – what’d you call him? – psychotic pair of abs from hell?”

“I did not call him that,” Bucky hedged.

“He tells me everything,” Natasha said, looking at Steve and leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m like his walking diary.”

Steve glanced at Bucky who shot Natasha a very serious glare. She leaned back again, looking unmoved.

“I do _not_ tell her everything,” Bucky said, looking at Steve. He wasn’t smiling, but there was mirth in his eyes.

“Don’t test me, Barnes,” Natasha said lightly.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what were you saying, Clint?”

Clint continued his story. Steve missed a good chunk of it – something about a dog and tracksuits and a firefight on a rooftop. Suddenly, it was ten minutes to go until the new year and the excitement was growing in the ever-crowded bar. Even Steve was feeling it, his foot tapping anxiously on the sticky tiles of the floor.

Bucky was in the middle of a story about one of their clients, Steve filling in what few details he could, when Brock strode up to their table, a beer in hand and a smirk on his face.

Steve felt Bucky tense up beside him, could even feel some of the metal plates on his left arm shift slightly under the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. For half a second, Steve entertained the daydream of Bucky letting loose and landing a nice, solid, metal punch square in Brock’s face.

“This is real cute,” Brock said, motioning with his beer to the table. “I’m glad you still have people willing to feed into your lies, Rogers.”

Steve opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by not one, but every single person at the table letting loose with a slew of “get losts” and “go fuck yourselves”.

The group of gym rats Brock had come with sidled up behind him, chatting with one another and laughing, not really paying attention to what was going on, but clearly there as a deterrent in case Steve’s group got any bright ideas.

Brock let out a loud laugh and took a step back. He put his hands up in defeat, still smiling. “Sure, sure,” Brock said and Steve realized he must be drunk. The way his eyes couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a second – Steve had seen it a lot when they’d been together.

“Maybe you should get going, Brock,” Steve said as evenly as he could.

Fury flashed in Brock’s eyes, but Steve was too far away to grab, so he settled for slamming his beer down on the table instead. “You think you can fucking talk to me like that?” he spat.

Clint and Sam both stood up, forcing Brock to take a step back.

“Hey, man, don’t talk to him like that. You came over here and started shit, so just leave it,” Clint said.

“Jesus Christ,” hissed Steve at the scene unfolding before him. There was no way this was going to end well. Once Brock was in a mood, it was hard to keep him from fighting someone – anyone. He’d pick a fight with a brick wall if he could. He almost wanted to get up, let Brock take a swing and have it over with. But then he felt a pressure on his thigh, just above his knee: Bucky’s hand. He squeezed slightly and Steve pressed his hand over Bucky’s metal one gratefully.

“Let’s all just calm down and go our separate ways,” Sam said in what Steve recognized as his therapist voice. Maybe there was something to be said about it, too, because after a tense five seconds, Brock finally put up his hands again, grabbed his beer, and disappeared into the crowd, his cronies following after.

“Y’know, I always hated that guy,” Sam said, sitting back down.

“Christ, I’m so sorry,” Steve said.

“Not your fault that guy was raised by fuckin’ trolls,” Clint replied.

The group fell into a tense silence and it wasn’t until Bucky’s phone rang that Steve realized they were still holding hands under the table. Bucky shot Steve a brief, apologetic look before pulling his hand away to fish his phone out of his jacket.

“It’s my aunt,” Bucky said, staring down at the lit-up screen. “Probably wants to wish me happy new year. She always gets super drunk and watches the ball drop. I’m the only family she’s got, y’know? I should take it.” Sam slid out so Bucky could try and force his way out of the bar and outside where it might be quieter. It didn’t need to be said that she was the only family Bucky had, too. As far as Steve knew, Bucky had only met her when he was really young because she lived all the way in Maine in a nursing home, but after his parents died, they’d started talking more.

Steve sighed and pushed his hair back. He could still feel the pressure of Bucky’s hand on his leg, like it left an imprint. It made him giddy in a way that couldn’t be entirely explained by beer.

“I gotta take a piss,” Sam said after a moment and left.

“So,” Natasha said, sitting up. She put her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers. She looked at Steve, one eyebrow raised. “James ever tell you how he lost his arm?”

“Aw, Nat, c’mon, it’s New Year’s!” Clint complained.

Natasha ignored him, just stared at Steve expectantly.

“Uh, no. I mean, not exactly. I know it happened during the war, obviously. Other than that… I mean, he doesn’t like to talk about it, so it’s fine.”

“It was an IED,” Natasha said. “Took out his whole squadron, except him and this bozo who happened to be leaning down to tuck his pants into his boots.” She stuck a thumb out at Clint who was frowning deeply at his empty beer. “He was driving, did you know that? That’s why he’s got all that guilt.”

Steve swallowed. It felt weird hearing all this, knowing Bucky probably didn’t want Steve to know. But he hadn’t asked Natasha, he shouldn’t feel guilty about knowing.

“Oh,” Steve said, not sure there was anything to be said.

“I really like you, Steve,” Natasha said. It was the first thing she’d ever said to Steve that sounded really genuine. “That’s why I think you should know. Because James is an idiot.”

Steve bristled, his mind still locked on the image of Bucky in a Humvee, losing his entire squadron. That wasn’t his fault. Bucky wasn’t an idiot.

“He really likes you.”

Steve stared at Natasha, the drink making his mind work a lot slower than he wanted. “Um, yeah,” he managed after a long pause. “I like him, too.”

Clint let out a laugh and Natasha shot him glare. He quickly shut up, looking contritely at the table. She turned back to Steve.

“I think you know that’s not what I mean,” Natasha said.

Steve could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. He let his eyes really study Natasha’s face, waiting for the inevitable crack of a smile that would indicate this was some really bad joke.

Steve cleared his throat. “I don’t, um- I don’t know-”

Natasha shook her head, her red hair bouncing comically. “You don’t have to say anything to me,” she said. “I’m telling you this because Bucky doesn’t think he deserves anything good in his life. He’s afraid of hurting people, but he’s especially afraid of hurting you. Which is why, despite the fact that you guys are clearly fucking disgustingly made for each other, he won’t say a damn thing.”

Steve knew his mouth was hanging open, but couldn’t bring himself to care enough to close it. _Bucky liked him?_ It didn’t seem quite possible.

And yet.

“Look,” Natasha continued, “I’m not gonna say another thing about this. You are grown-ass adults who can figure this out on your own.”

Clint snorted. “It’s in your blood, Nat. You’re a commanding officer. You love telling people what to do.”

She smiled at Clint and shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe,” she conceded. She turned back to Steve. “Okay, my last piece of advice and then I swear I’ll shut up about it? It’s two minutes until the New Year and in my experience, the New Year is always the best time let people know how you feel.”

“Or to kiss. It’s good for kissing,” Clint added.

Steve glanced down at his phone. 11:58. He looked around the bar, people talking loudly and excitedly as the clocked ticked down the seconds. Where was Bucky?

“I’ll be back,” he said and quickly slid out of the booth. He strode into the crowd, pushing past laughing, drunk people toward the front door. He heard Natasha and Clint’s whoops and cheering behind him. He’d almost made it to the front when he felt a warm, solid hand grab his upper arm. 

“Where you goin’, Steve?” 

“Sam!” Steve shouted over the noise. 

Sam frowned slightly. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I gotta find Bucky!”

Sam’s eyes grew wide and he nodded seriously. “Good luck, man!”

Steve slipped away and finally, finally, made it out the door. There were quite a few people there, groups of two and three who’d come outside to smoke and chat. Steve glanced around, but Bucky was nowhere in sight. The music had died down in the bar, but the laughter and shouting still spilled out onto the street. Maybe he’d gone farther down the street.

Steve chose a direction and walked, figuring he’d double-back in a block if he didn’t see him. He looked down at his phone. 11:59. His heartrate picked up.

He realized, then, that he was an idiot. He quickly found Bucky’s contact and called him. Even if he were still on the phone with his aunt, he’d probably answer to see if everything was okay. 

The phone rang and rang, Steve still walking away from the bar, keeping an eye out. The phone rang out and Steve hung up. Maybe Bucky had made it back to the table, maybe he couldn’t hear his phone over the noise of the bar, maybe something bad had happened with his aunt.

He heard before he saw. The sound of bone on flesh, the muffled, pounding sound of someone getting beat up. Steve jogged the last few steps toward the alleyway ahead on the left.

There was Bucky, up against the brick wall with Brock’s hand around his neck. His right hand digging uselessly into Brock’s arm while his left grabbed for purchase on the wall behind him. 

Adrenaline flooded Steve’s veins as he frantically searched for something to stop Brock. He spotted a metal trashcan lid and before he could think whether or not it was a good idea, brought the metal down as hard as he could on Brock’s head. It didn’t knock him down, but Brock stumbled back, more in shock than in pain. Bucky fell back against the wall, gasping for breath.

Steve dropped the lid, his arms shaking from the reverberation. 

“What the _fuck!_ ” Brock cursed. He pressed a hand to the back of his head to check for blood. He looked at Steve and pure fury flashed in his eyes. He took two steps toward Steve and Steve knew he was going to be spending New Year’s Day in the hospital.

A flash of something, the sound of metal hitting bone, and Brock crumpled to the ground.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed. 

Bucky shook out his metal hand, flexing the fingers for a moment. He was doubled-over, his right hand clutching his left side.

“Are you okay?” Steve gasped out, taking a step forward.

Bucky shook his head. His hair had fallen out at some point and it obscured his face. He stood up straighter and turned to Steve. “Had ‘im on the ropes,” Bucky said weakly.

Steve looked at Brock, who was starting to stir. Bucky pushed his hair back with his metal hand.

“You okay, Stevie?” Bucky asked.

Steve looked at Bucky, his cheek bright red from where he’d been hit. It would be a bruise by the morning. Steve looked at the way he clutched his side because his ribs were probably broken. Steve looked at Bucky and knew what he had to do.

“Steve?” Bucky said and he took a tentative step forward.

Steve took a step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i'm so sorry
> 
> THIS IS TERRIBLE JESUS CHRIST ok ok i'm literally writing the next chapter as we speak so i swear i'll have it posted asap
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at me


	14. Chapter 14

“Steve, are you all right?” Bucky asked again, his voice low and serious. He could feel his pulse in his cheek where Brock had gotten in a good punch. It didn’t feel fractured; the guy clearly had never been taught how to throw a real punch.

This whole thing made Bucky really upset that he’d convinced Tony to make his arm weaker.

“I can’t do this,” Steve said, hardly more than a whisper.

“What are you – are you okay, Steve? Are you hurt?”

“You could have died.”

Bucky let out a short breath. “I think that’s a little dramatic.” Okay, he probably had a few broken ribs and if Steve hadn’t shown up, probably wouldn’t be breathing real well, but he didn’t think Brock really wanted to kill him, just rough him up a bit. The fact that the beefy guys that had been hanging around Brock in the bar weren’t there now proved that. 

Steve shook his head slowly. He took another step back and his heel crunched on something. He looked down and moved his foot. Bucky’s phone. The screen was completely shattered.

Steve backed away quickly then, never looking away from the phone.

“Steve,” Bucky said.

“I can’t,” Steve said. He turned and walked away quickly.

It took Bucky a few seconds for his legs to catch up with his brain. He jogged after Steve. “Steve, wait!” Bucky called, but Steve walked on, determination in his posture.

Bucky finally caught up, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and turning him. Steve’s jaw was rigid, his eyes set and brow furrowed in anger. “What the hell is going on?” Bucky said. He certainly didn’t expect to get beat up in an alleyway on New Year’s, but Steve’s reaction might have been even more of a shock. He seemed angry that Bucky had gotten hurt, like he had any control over what Brock’s asshole mind decided was a good idea.

“You don’t get it!” Steve cried out, surprising Bucky. 

Bucky let his back fall against the brick wall. He legs were shaky and he wanted to sit down with an ice pack, not fight with Steve. “What are you talking about?” Bucky asked weakly. “I don’t know what I did.”

“You-!” Steve turned away, a hand pulling at his hair. “You could have died!” He spun back to face Bucky. “Do you have any idea-? Jesus, Bucky! I can’t do this! I won’t go through that again!”

“What are you…?” Bucky trailed off. Again. Steve wouldn’t go through this _again._ He was afraid Bucky was going to die, like Peggy. 

“Steve, I’m not gonna die,” he said.

Steve shook his head slightly and took a step back as if he were going to start walking away again.

“Hey!” Bucky snapped, feeling the anger rise up. “You don’t get to fucking decide this! If you’re gonna be a coward,” Steve visibly bristled at that, his eyes flashing with anger, “then you’d better make it good! You’d better have a damn good reason you don’t want to do this!”

Steve looked like he was ready to punch Bucky, his fists curled as his sides, knuckles white. Bucky half-expected it when Steve took a step toward him. But then Steve pushed a hand against Bucky’s chest and kissed him on the mouth.

Bucky immediately melted into the kiss, felt his entire body go warm and pliant. He opened his mouth to press his tongue against Steve’s lower lip, but Steve pulled back. Bucky actually let out a little whine, which he hoped was obscured by the music and shouting coming from the bar ten feet away.

“I don’t want to lose you, Buck, because I think I love you.” Steve was so close, Bucky could smell the mix of mint and beer on his breath, could still taste it in his mouth. 

Bucky touched Steve’s neck with his right hand and then pulled him into a tight embrace. It killed his ribs, but the feeling of Steve’s arms around him warm and solid, was worth every second.

“God, you’re not gonna lose me, Steve. I love you.”

“You love me?” Steve repeated in Bucky’s ear, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Bucky let out a little laugh. “Yeah, punk, of course I do.” He finally broke the hug so he could put his hands on Steve’s face. So he could lean down and kiss Steve like he’d been dreaming about for months.

It felt even better than he’d imagined.

A wolf whistle came from the direction of the bar and quickly brought Bucky back to reality. He pulled away from Steve to glare at whoever was being a dick. 

Natasha. Oh.

There was a smattering of polite applause from their small group who had decided they’d had enough of the bar and instead needed to heckle their friends.

“’Bout time,” Sam said with a huge smile.

Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but Natasha cut him off: “Incoming.”

She was looking just over Bucky’s shoulder and when he turned, the adrenaline in his blood spiked again. Brock was up and he looked _murderous._

Bucky gripped Steve’s hand in his own, bracing for another brawl, but then Natasha was ahead of them. It was over in less than five seconds. Bucky wasn’t even sure exactly what happened. One second, Brock was looking confused, staring at Natasha like she was the last person he’d expected to see, and then he was on the ground, Natasha’s knee on his throat, his arms over his head.

The scene caused a few people to gather around, but no one seemed inclined to do anything about it.

Natasha bent down and said something to Brock who nodded once, then again with more enthusiasm, eyes wide and terrified. Natasha finally released him. He scrambled up and limped away across the street.

“Christ, Nat,” Bucky said. “What’d you say to him?”

Natasha wiped her hands on her jeans and patted Bucky on the shoulder lightly. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, Sergeant. Now, why don’t we head to the hospital so you two can get back to what you were doing before?” She grinned.

“Gross,” Clint chimed in, albeit cheerily.

  


* * *

  


“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Steve said.

Bucky grimaced at the sharp pain in his side as he sat on the edge of Steve’s bed. He stared down at the medical wrap keeping his ribs in place. He should have felt naked without his shirt, his metal arm on full display, but was in too much pain to care. The doctor had given him something, but it had worn off quickly, and without the adrenaline to dull the pain, everything was hitting him full-force.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bucky said when Steve returned with the promised glass of water and the prescription bottle they’d left downstairs.

“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve said for the hundredth time.

“I can sleep downstairs,” Bucky insisted even as he scooted to the head of the bed.

“I don’t want you to sleep downstairs,” Steve said simply. He turned to his dresser and pulled off his shirt.

Bucky blushed and averted his eyes, then realized he didn’t have to. At least, he didn’t think he did. They’d kissed, after all. It had been a few hours now, but it had happened and Bucky’s pretty sure he didn’t make that up.

But he’d also been punched in the head, so who knows?

Steve had more tattoos. Some sort of geometric design combined with a realistic – what was that? An eagle? – over his shoulder. There was something tattooed on his right hip, too, just visible above his pants. 

Steve pulled off his pants. Bucky could feel his heartbeat, strong and fast. 

“Enjoying the view, Barnes?”

Bucky turned bright red but laughed. “Immensely,” he admitted.

Steve smiled and pulled on his sleep pants before joining Bucky in bed. Up close, Bucky could see many of the same tattoos he remembered from years ago. 

“Sorry I don’t have anything that fits you,” Steve said as he pulled down the covers to climb underneath.

“’S fine,” Bucky said and quickly took off his own jeans before sliding under the covers. 

“How do your ribs feel?” Steve asked.

Bucky laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He made a face. “Amazing. Really great. Like I’m being stabbed in three different places.”

Steve laughed. “Drama queen,” he said.

Bucky turned his head to glare at Steve, but the effect was lost when Bucky saw how close he was, how blue his eyes were, how soft his lips looked.

“Kiss me?” Bucky asked softly.

Steve smiled and wiggled closer to press his lips against Bucky’s. They started slow, tongues barely ghosting over lips and teeth. Then, Steve leaned closer and inhaled deeply, trailing his tongue across Bucky’s bottom lip. Bucky groaned and turned to press back.

“Ow,” Bucky whined. Steve let out a soft laugh, little breaths of air warming Bucky’s mouth and chin.

“Maybe we should wait ‘til you’re healed to do this.”

Bucky let out a really masculine whine and said, “I don’t wanna.”

Steve laughed again, pressed a chaste kiss to the side of Bucky’s mouth, and fell back against his own pillow. “Get some sleep, Buck.”

Steve reached behind him and turned the light off, throwing them into darkness.

Bucky was almost asleep when Steve hissed, “Oh my god.”

Bucky groaned. “What’s wrong?” The light flipped on again, blinding Bucky. 

“I missed it!” Steve said. He was holding himself over Bucky, looking upset and angry.

“Missed what?” Bucky mumbled, rubbing his eyes. 

“New Year’s! I missed it! We missed it!”

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. “What the hell are you talking about, Rogers?”

“I had this whole thing, y’know, where I was gonna find you and we’d wait to count down ‘til New Year’s and I was gonna kiss you and tell you I loved you and…”

“That’s real sweet, Steve,” Bucky said. “Sorry I got the shit beat out of me.”

Steve punched Bucky hard on the shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot!” he snapped.

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry I ruined your Nicholas Sparks moment.”

“You didn’t ruin it. I just…” Steve trailed off. “I’m sad we missed it. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just remembered and…” Steve waved his hand in the air.

Bucky cleared his throat. “10,” he said.

“What?”

“9,” Bucky continued.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“8… 7… 6…”

“Bucky, this doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does. 5.”

“It’s not even midnight anywhere else in the world.”

“4.”

“It’s 4:34 in the morning.”

“3.”

“You can’t even wait until 5 a.m. to do it?”

“Hell no. 2.”

“Jesus.”

“1! Woo. Happy New Year. Yeah,” Bucky said sleepily. He turned to look at Steve, who was trying his best to scowl, but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Well?” Bucky said. “I’m a cripple, Steve. You gotta come to me.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but leaned over to kiss Bucky. “I hate you,” Steve mumbled when he pulled away.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You _love_ me? God, I didn’t know, Steve! You should’ve told me! I’m shocked! Flabbergasted, even! My god, what will our friends say?”

Steve poked Bucky lightly in the ribs, making him yelp. “Not cool, Rogers.”

“Neither is making fun of me.”

“I’d never,” Bucky said sweetly.

Steve leaned down and kissed Bucky again before turning off the light and laying back down. He rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Happy New Year, Steve,” Bucky said softly.

“Happy New Year, Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> I think this was the penultimate chapter. The next one should round everything off. I haven't written it or even really brainstormed it, so I can't say much more than that.
> 
> I CAN say, however, that you guys are the best readers and commenters and kudo-ers in the world. Thank you so much. It keeps me writing!
> 
> I'm on the [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com).


	15. Chapter 15

Steve woke up slowly, drawn to the surface of consciousness by the feeling of soft fingertips tracing his spine. He was cold, lying completely naked on his side in his bed. The comforter had been thrown off at some point in the middle of night. It was probably Bucky’s fault; he was a restless sleeper.

Steve curled up a little tighter and dragged his pillow closer. He felt a soft rush of warm air against his neck as Bucky laughed.

“Cold?” Bucky mumbled. His fingers paused briefly until Steve arched into his hand, causing Bucky to laugh again.

“Mm,” Steve replied. He closed his eyes as Bucky’s fingers drifted from his back to his side. Steve didn’t have to look to know Bucky was tracing the curve of a tattoo. 

It had been just three short months since New Year’s, since they’d both gotten their shit together long enough to admit they wanted to be together. Steve’s only regret was that they hadn’t done this sooner.

The goosebumps that rose on Steve’s arms didn’t go unnoticed. Bucky reached his arm around Steve and drew him close until they were pressed flush against one another. The warmth was welcome and it was clear Steve wasn’t the only one enjoying their proximity.

“G’morning to you, too,” Steve mumbled into his pillow. He pushed himself back against Bucky and he felt Bucky’s twitch of pleasure against his ass before he heard the hum of want deep in his chest.

Steve turned over and opened his mouth to make some smart comment, but Bucky was too quick and he pressed his mouth against Steve’s. The kiss was hot and needy and Steve wondered just how long Bucky had been waiting for Steve to wake up. 

Steve pressed his hand against Bucky’s side, feeling his ribs beneath the hard muscle there. He traced the lines of his abs down until he felt the soft hair at the base of his cock. Steve was half-hard just from the lazy kisses Bucky was placing on his neck and shoulders. Bucky had gotten a head start, already hard and, with a swipe of Steve’s thumb across the head of Bucky’s cock, leaking. Bucky let out a stuttered breath against Steve’s shoulder.

It was an awkward position with them both on their sides, so Steve pushed lightly on Bucky’s shoulder. He immediately fell on his back and Steve threw a leg over to straddle him.

Three months ago, this would have been impossible. A week after New Year’s, they’d tried. But it was too soon and Steve couldn’t stop thinking about Peggy and even though Bucky kept saying it wasn’t his fault and it was okay and it didn’t matter to him, it mattered to _Steve_. If this was going to happen – no, not _if_ , but _when_ – then it was going to happen with Bucky, not while Steve’s mind wandered, thinking about thin fingers, softly curled brown hair, and red lipstick.

Two weeks after New Year’s, Bucky choked out an apology halfway through before rushing to the bathroom to vomit.

A month after New Year’s, they weren’t even trying, not really, knowing from past experience now that forcing the matter wouldn’t help. And they’d gotten to a point where they could get each other off. Maybe not with penetrative sex, but with hands and mouths, which was already more than Steve could have hoped for.

The longer Steve spent with Bucky, the easier it was to fall into that pool of lust in his mind and middle without breaking. And it was the same with Bucky, his invasive thoughts held at bay almost indefinitely, save a few sporadic moments.

It was a Saturday in April, which meant no work, no class, no need to leave their bed for the foreseeable future. And even if they couldn’t have real sex, that didn’t matter much, because this – the breathless kissing, moaning, stroking – was enough.

Still, sometimes Steve wished.

Bucky bit lightly on Steve’s neck at the same time he rocked his hips forward. The dry friction had Steve reeling, so lost in the feeling of it all he missed what Bucky said the first time.

“What?” Steve asked breathlessly, pulling lightly on the hair behind Bucky’s ear.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Steve stilled, pushed himself up, and stared at Bucky. Steve had thought maybe it had been heat of the moment dirty talk, but Bucky was clear-eyed and resolute. 

“Are you-?” Steve started, but Bucky cut him off immediately: “Yes.”

Steve swallowed and allowed himself a moment’s hesitation before leaning forward and kissing Bucky more fervently than he had yet that day. Bucky replied in kind, warm hands slipping around Steve’s thin frame reverently. 

Finally, Steve pulled back and Bucky whimpered at the loss. Steve leaned across the bed to the nightstand. Bucky’s hand never left his skin, the warmth of it dragging down Steve’s back as he crawled over to the edge. He opened the drawer there and grabbed the bottle of lube. His eyes caught the blink of his phone as it lit up.

34 missed calls.

Steve dropped the lube to the bed and snatched his phone from the charger.

“Oh, yeah, take your time,” Bucky said sarcastically.

“It’s Sam,” Steve said, feeling the panic in his chest quick-start his heart into overdrive. 

Bucky sat up. “Something wrong?”

Steve shook his head after his messages finally _finally_ loaded. One text from Sam. _Call me ASAP_.

Steve called and waited for agonizingly long seconds until Sam finally picked up: “About time.”

“Sam. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Tony. You gotta get to NYP Medical.”

  


* * *

  


Steve saw Pepper first, although the waiting room in the ER department was fairly full of faces Steve found vaguely familiar. She spotted Steve and Bucky hurrying into the large room and made to get up, but Sam placed a hand on her thigh and said something to her. Sam stood and met them near the front desk.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I know what this place means to you,” Sam said. Steve felt Bucky’s hand press comfortingly into his back, but it did little to dispel the sheer panic racing through his blood.

“Sam, what’s going on?” Steve repeated, harder and angrier than he had any right to be.

“It’s Tony. He’s sick. He’s been sick for a year. Kept it pretty quiet.”

“You knew.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, which was answer enough.

“What’s wrong with him?” Bucky asked.

“It’s his liver.” Sam said this to Steve, to gauge his reaction. Steve wanted to run, wanted to fight, wanted to do a number of things that were entirely unhelpful to someone in the hospital.

“Steve? Listen to me, okay?” Sam said and when had he put his hands on Steve’s shoulders? Bucky was gone. No, he was with Pepper, shooting wary glances at Steve every few seconds.

Steve nodded once.

“Tony’s been going through treatment for a year now. The doctors caught it early and it’s likely this is just a setback.”

_“I’m afraid this isn’t just a setback.”_

_“Hereditary diffuse gastric cancer. It’s a type of inherited condition associated with an increased risk of…”_

_“Up to a year to live…”_

_“Should she be on a special diet? What can we do to stop it?”_

_“I’m afraid there’s not much we can do at this point other than make her comfortable.”_

_“Did you say you just got married?”_

The air was cool and the wind pushed and pulled Steve’s unruly hair. He was outside and he halfheartedly tried to recall how he’d made it there. He was standing, at least, and a cursory glance around showed he was alone. It also showed the sign indicating he was standing outside the door to the Emergency Room department of the hospital.

He pressed on his chest with the heel of his hand, willing his heart to slow down. This was _Tony_ , not Peggy. Tony was sick. Tony was dying. Tony wasn’t even really Steve’s friend. Did that even matter? After everything Tony had done for Peggy…

“Hey, there you are.”

Steve flinched away as Bucky jogged toward him with an outstretched hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky said and let his hands fall to his sides.

Steve shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

“Steve, I… I’m sorry. If you don’t want to be here, I can take you home. I’ll keep you updated. Or not. I don’t… I don’t know. Just tell me what to do.”

_“Just tell me what to do, Peggy. I don’t know what to do.”_

_Peggy’s breathing stutters, a hiccup in the machine keeping her alive._

_She’s not even there, not really._

Steve fell into something hard, strong arms that help him to the ground as his head swam with nightmares. 

“Breathe with me, can you do that? Steve, I need you to look at me.”

Steve shook his head, closed his eyes, saw Peggy’s face, gaunt and sallow with sickness. Steve heaved, but nothing came up. 

Steve felt movement beneath his fingers, the practiced rise and fall of a warm chest. Bucky’s flesh and blood hand held Steve’s in place, an anchor there if nowhere else.

Steve sucked air into his lungs hungrily. He pulled at the fabric of Bucky’s shirt and tried to match his breathing. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he was able to do it, but finally he opened his eyes. His vision was clear and the panic had subsided, temporarily. 

“Sorry,” Steve breathed, shaking his head softly.

Bucky’s metal hand rubbed lightly across his back. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. You okay?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… I’m okay. We should, um, we should go back inside.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “We’re gonna stay right here for a little bit. No rush, Steve. I’ve got my phone. If Sam or Pepper needs us, they’ll call.”

Steve nodded again, relieved, then guilty. God, he was such a mess.

They sat in silence for several long minutes.

“Stage IV stomach cancer,” Steve said. He couldn’t stop himself, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop. Bucky deserved to know, after everything they’d been through.

“What?” Bucky asked, his voice low, quiet, and comforting. 

“Peggy. She had… stomach cancer. A genetic thing. Her dad… And the doctors caught it too late. She was already… They couldn’t operate or do anything.”

“Steve, you don’t have to,” Bucky said.

“I want to.” Steve looked up at Bucky, mustering up all the courage he had left to just _talk_ because he hadn’t ever talked about this to anyone. Not even to Sam. 

“She got a year, at first,” Steve continued. He saw Peggy in his mind, stoic and strong despite the death sentence she’d just been handed. Steve had been more of a wreck than she ever was. “She’d been so calm about the whole thing. I mean, that first week she basically took care of me. Like I’d been told I was dying instead of her.” Steve laughed humorlessly. “She’d always been like that. Pragmatic. And she got lucky, they say: 14 months.” 

Steve shrugged. “It still wasn’t enough time, but we traveled. We went everywhere and saw everything. It was, ironically, the best time of my life.” Steve rubbed his eyes tiredly, pushing his glasses into his hair. “Tony and Peggy had been friends forever. When he found out she was sick, he did everything. He got the best doctors in the world and threw money at every experimental drug. And maybe it wasn’t anything he did that gave us those two extra months together, but either way I feel like I owe him. He did more for Peggy than I ever could. All I ever did was feel miserable about it, completely useless.”

“Hey, stop. That’s not true.”

Steve gave Bucky an unconvinced look.

“It’s not,” Bucky said firmly. “I don’t know Peggy, but if I can surmise anything about her, it’s that she’d beat the everloving shit out of you for saying shit like this. Steve, you stood by her side through everything. How can you not see how important that was? Sure, Tony got her doctors and shit, but none of that matters to someone who’s about to die. It’s who you’re with. It’s your friends and your family.”

“Jesus, you sound exactly like her.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Steve laughed and then sighed heavily. “Thanks for listening, Buck.”

Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s shoulder, pulled him close, and pressed his lips against Steve’s temple.

  


* * *

  


“This was on a need-to-know basis, up until recently.” Tony shot a look at Pepper who matched his glare fervently. “You were not need-to-know.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said, with no energy and no heat.

“Love you, too, Rogers.”

Steve fidgeted in the plush hospital chair pulled close to Tony’s bed. “I could have helped. I’ve been through this, Tony.”

“Oh, you’ve had cancer? I must’ve missed that.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You can’t say that, I have cancer! Pepper, tell Steve he can’t say that.”

Pepper seemed to struggle with not rolling her eyes. “You’re lucky that’s all they’re saying, Tony,” Pepper said.

  


* * *

  


**1 month later**

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Bucky replied groggily.

Steve rolled toward Bucky and jabbed two fingers into the sensitive skin just beneath Bucky’s ribs. He yelped and jumped satisfactorily. He didn’t fall off the bed, but there’s always next time.

“What the hell?” Bucky grumbled into his pillow.

“The pictures.”

Bucky grew quiet then let out a breath. “Oh.”

Steve had noticed the first photo a week ago, had meant to ask Bucky how it had made its way out of the office and onto the side table by the armchair in the living room, but by that night he’d forgotten all about it. 

“I like ‘em,” Bucky said quietly, almost shyly. Steve couldn’t see him in the dark bedroom, but he’d guess Bucky was blushing. “You look happy. I don’t know. It was stupid. I can put ‘em back.”

“No, I like ‘em, too,” Steve agreed. 

Since that first photo had appeared, others had made their way out into the oft-used rooms of the house: a collage in the kitchen, a framed photo in the hallway, small pictures in mismatched frames in the entryway. All of Steve and Peggy, mostly from their year-long excursion to see the world before… Well, before. 

Steve had expected to be angry about it, or at least upset. Bucky was exposing this private part of Steve’s life to the world when it had been locked away for so long. But Steve couldn’t be upset when he looked at those pictures because Peggy was always there, bright, happy, alive, and a constant reminder that Steve deserved to be happy, too, now, in spite of everything.

Being angry at Bucky was not conducive to Steve’s happiness.

“You do?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, ‘course.” Steve pressed his palm against the solid warmth of Bucky’s chest and smiled.

  


* * *

  


**2 months later**

“Holy _Jesus_.”

“You can just call me Steve.”

“Shut the fuck u- _oh fuck_.”

“I mean, I know it’s my birthday, but comparing me to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is a bit much, Bucky.”

“Can we _not_ talk about religion when you’ve got three of your fingers inside of my _ahh shit, right there_.”

Steve huffed out a breath and pulled his fingers out. 

Bucky groaned loudly. “C’mon, Stevie, please, please, Christ, please.”

Steve thumbed open the lube and stroked himself a few times. He lined himself up and pressed lightly, the head of his cock pushing in and causing a cacophony of curses to spill from Bucky’s mouth.

Steve wasn’t sure it was possible, but in the morning light Bucky was somehow even more beautiful than normal. His face and chest were flushed red, a sheen of sweat across his forehead where his hair was pushed back, spilling over the pillow. His legs spread open a fraction of an inch more, an invitation for Steve to continue. He obliged.

Halfway buried in Bucky, Steve let out a harsh breath. They had done this a few times, and every time Steve nearly lost it just from that. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Bucky panted, clearly thinking Steve’s hesitation was due to his concern for Bucky’s wellbeing instead of his fear of coming too soon.

Steve pushed in again, slowly, until he was completely inside of Bucky. The thought was intoxicating. Steve groaned and let his head fall against Bucky’s knee, placing a kiss there on the inside of his leg.

“You have no idea how good you feel,” Steve said. 

“I think I have some idea,” Bucky replied. He gasped as Steve repositioned himself with both hands on the bed on either side of Bucky’s chest. Steve dropped lower to press a kiss against Bucky’s open mouth.

“Okay?” Steve breathed against his cheek, rough with the stubble from a day and night without shaving.

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

Steve pulled out slowly and pressed in, starting a slow rhythm until Bucky became relaxed and pliant. At each thrust, Bucky let out a soft moan of ecstasy, his head thrown back, fingers digging into Steve’s back where there were sure to be bruises by that afternoon.

Bucky’s hand wandered down to cup Steve’s ass. He squeezed and then pushed as he said, “Wait, wait, hold on.”

Steve froze. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, Jesus, I’m just gonna come if we don’t slow down.”

Steve let out a breath and leaned back to look at Bucky’s cock, fully erect and dripping a puddle of precome on his stomach. Steve fell forward again to capture Bucky’s mouth, happy just to kiss, still filling Bucky up, wrapped in his tight warmth without moving. Minutes went by filled only with the sound of their kissing.

Bucky let out a loud, open-mouthed groan and Steve wondered why before realizing he’d started moving again without noticing. But Steve was too hard and Bucky felt too good to stay still and before long, Steve was sinking in and out of Bucky again. He snapped his hips with every thrust, pushing in as deeply as he could each time. He went faster as the heat in his abdomen coiled tighter and tighter. 

Bucky cried out first, shooting come up his stomach and chest. Steve thrust in again once, twice, three times before coming inside of Bucky. He rode his orgasm out before pulling free and collapsing bonelessly next to Bucky. 

“Happy… birthday… Stevie,” Bucky said between heavy breaths.

Steve huffed and smiled. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head. “That’s not all you’re getting, mind you.”

Steve let his head drop to the side to stare at Bucky. “Is it a mid-morning nap? Because if so, I am very interested.”

“Not a – Hey!” Bucky said as Steve rolled over, throwing his arm around Bucky’s middle.

“Oh, Jesus!” Steve yelped, pulling his arm away.

“After what we’ve done, you think it’s gross you got a little come on your arm?” Bucky asked with raised eyebrows.

Steve frowned.

“Well, only one way to remedy this,” Bucky said. 

He started to push on Steve’s side. Steve leveled Bucky with a glare. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Shower. Now. C’mon.” 

Steve snorted. “I know you’re thinking shower sex, but I’ve got the-”

“Longest refractory period known to man, yeah, I’ve heard,” Bucky cut in easily. “You keep saying that and I am determined to break our last record. What was that again?”

“I wasn’t _timing it_ ,” Steve said.

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Half an hour,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky grinned wide. “I can beat that easy.”

“Buck…”

“Won’t know ‘til we try. Besides, I’ve yet to put these to real use.” Bucky held up his metal hand and wiggled the fingers.

  


* * *

  


As it turned out, Steve could get off again within fifteen minutes of his last orgasm with the right incentive.

  


* * *

  


Not that Steve was expecting a big present from Bucky – he’s a part-time student working for his boyfriend as an administrative assistant, after all – but the fact that it was just an _envelope_ was a little unnerving.

It was late evening, nearing 9 and it was still light out. Steve loved the summer and this birthday had certainly topped his list of favorite days. He’d spent the morning warm and in bed (mostly) with Bucky, the afternoon with Sam, Thor, Jane, and Darcy at a local café, and then the evening back at home with Natasha and Clint. Tony and Pepper were on a well-earned vacation on some private island after the doctors official declared Tony was back in remission, but Tony had promised his present would be coming in the mail shortly; Steve was beyond nervous about that.

Bucky hadn’t left his side all day and through all of the gift-giving, hadn’t said a word about his own promised gift. But Steve was patient. Bucky waited until Natasha and Clint left.

Bucky pulled the envelope out from his satchel hanging by the front door and offered it to Steve with a little smile. “Happy birthday,” he said.

Steve took the envelope and waited until Bucky was seated again on the couch to open it. He pulled out a card. It was _Star Wars_ -themed and said “To my young Padawan” on the front.

“Uh, Buck?”

“I know it’s weird but it’s _Star Wars_ , Steve,” he said emphatically. “Besides, it’s what’s _inside_ the card that matters.”

Steve opened the card. It read: “Happy 12th birthday and may the Force be with you!” in the iconic _Star Wars_ font. Bucky had signed his name in his familiar, messy scrawl. There was nothing else in the card. Steve flipped the card to the back, but again, nothing.

“I repeat: uh, Buck?” Steve said.

“Oh, did I forget to put this in there?” 

Steve looked up. Bucky held out a pamphlet. Steve took it hesitantly. “Icelandair” was printed on the front with a blue logo that looked an awful lot like a plane.

“Bucky, what is this?” Steve asked slowly.

“Uh, two plane tickets to Iceland? In December. Which I know sounds crazy, but that’s the best time to see the Northern Lights. Plus, I figure if we get too miserable, it’s a short flight to Europe.”

“How did you…?” Steve stared at the little plastic pamphlet in his hand in disbelief. He’d always wanted to go to Iceland. It had been on the list of places he and Peggy had wanted to visit, but they only had so much time and it was the wrong time of the year to see the lights, anyway.

Bucky cleared his throat. “If we ever meet again, I’m taking you on a proper date. Candles and shit. Because I think you deserve it.”

Steve’s head snapped up at the words. Bucky was holding a folded sheet of computer paper, worn at the edges, and reading from it with a gleeful smile playing on his face.

He continued: “That’s stupid. That sounds stupid. This note is stupid. Sorry. This is the part where you realize you slept with the lamest guy on Earth.” Bucky glanced up at Steve and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I was such a loser,” Bucky said.

Steve shook his head silently, lost for words. “Bucky, how did you…?”

“Shh, I’m not done yet.” He cleared his throat again. “But I’m being honest when I say you deserve something good in your life. For longer than one night. Being alone because you don’t think you’re worth much is the worst thing you can do to yourself. Take it from me.” Bucky snorted a laugh. “James. Forgot about the fake names.”

“Bucky, where’d you find that?”

Bucky bit his bottom lip, something he only did when he felt guilty or self-conscious. “I, um, sort of knocked over a box of things while sorting through those photos of you and Peggy. And this fell out.” He waved the note in the air. “And a list of places… that you and… um, that you guys wanted to visit. And I noticed Iceland was… I’m sorry. If you don’t want to go. It’s weird. I know it’s weird. Or invasive. And I should have kept it to myself or, I don’t know. I feel like an idiot for even-” 

Steve lunged forward to kiss Bucky. It was awkward and clumsy and Steve was smiling so hard it hurt. He pulled back to tell Bucky, “You’re not an idiot. This is amazing, Bucky. This is… you’re incredible.”

Bucky visibly relaxed, the relief evident in his soft smile. “Good.”

Steve licked his lips and watched as Bucky’s eyes flicked down to watch. Steve shivered.

“Can’t believe you found that list. And that _note_. Jesus, I’d forgotten I kept that.”

They were so close, Steve was practically in Bucky’s lap and he could smell the wine on his breath from their dinner an hour ago.

“You never throw anything away, do you, Stevie?” Bucky asked quietly.

“Nothing important,” Steve replied and pressed an open-mouth kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky responded in kind, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and pulling him even closer.

“You up for a repeat of this morning?” Bucky asked in a soft, low voice. Steve’s middle clenched and he barely choked out a “yes, God, please” in response.

  


* * *

  


Steve huffed out a breath, watching the air fog up around his mittens. Even Bucky’s solid warmth next to him couldn’t keep the cold at bay for long. That didn’t stop him from trying, though, as Bucky wrapped an arm around him and planted a kiss to his temple.

“If I had known we had to get frostbite to see the Aurora, I might have declined the offer,” Steve muttered through chattering teeth.

Bucky clicked his tongue in disdain. “Just wait, Rogers.”

Steve huffed again and tried to bury deeper into his oversized scarf. _Fucking Iceland_. 

Steve opened his mouth to protest the cold once again when, like a light switch had been flipped, the sky was filled with pinks and reds dancing through the air. Steve gasped and took a step closer, his feet crunching in the hard-packed snow. It was beautiful.

“Told ya,” Bucky said. He’d probably meant it to sound matter-of-fact, but even he couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice.

Steve stared open-mouthed at the display of lights, impossibly brilliant. He felt a warmth press against his back as Bucky wrapped his arms around him from behind. He rested his chin on Steve’s head, pushing his hat down in the process.

Steve laughed lightly and pushed his hat back.

“Oh hey,” Bucky said. He fidgeted and brought his phone out. The light glowed, showing the time. 

“Happy New Year, Steve.”

Steve smiled. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least it's a long chapter. And the last!
> 
> YAAAAY!!! *throws confetti*
> 
> thank you guys so much for the comments and kudos. so cool that more than one person (me) has read this and enjoyed it. i had a great time writing it. 
> 
> a couple tidbits that didn't make it into the fic:  
> \- Sam is ace! I wanted to incorporate that somehow, but it just never felt relevant. But Maria Hill is ALSO ace, so that's why they were thick as thieves at that bar. They hang out a lot now.  
> \- Brock cheated on Steve with a STUDENT. One of his current students at the time, so it was super gross and skeevy. Fuck u, Brock.  
> \- Bucky claimed he was a shit top, but they had plenty of time to practice and now Bucky's making up for lost time.
> 
> I'm taking a break after this and (HOPEFULLY) not going to start another monstrosity for awhile, instead focusing on the [The Blood Will Dry epilogues](http://archiveofourown.org/series/253813) or the [AU prompts](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StuckyAUs). Which isn't to say I don't have ideas; I HAVE TOO MANY IDEAS.
> 
> Thank you, again, for sticking around and I hope it was worth the gross amount of waiting. <3


End file.
